


Looking For Heaven

by EclecticMuse



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: After A Fast Start, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, Childbirth, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Mild Angst, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War II, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Unplanned Pregnancy, World War II, references to war violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 16:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 101,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18803695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclecticMuse/pseuds/EclecticMuse
Summary: On the eve of D-Day in 1944, Jemma Simmons meets a shy young journalist named Leo Fitz. One night spent together will change the course of her life forever. She thinks she'll have to walk that path alone, but perhaps the cosmos has another plan in store for her. A tale of love, loss, and hope set in the aftermath of the Second World War.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will be short, I said. 15k or 20k, tops. Well, joke's on me, because here I am 100k later with this beast! I'm so excited to finally start sharing it with everyone.
> 
> If you've been following me on Tumblr, you'll know that I've been referring to this as 'technically not an Overlord AU', which is _technically_ true. It's more like the sequel to an Overlord AU that I'm never going to write. As such, it contains some references to events and characters from the movie (and maybe even some cameos!) but you aren't required to have seen the movie to understand and enjoy this fic.
> 
> A big shoutout and thank you goes to my trusty betas horsyunicorn and recoveringrabbit for helping me whip this into shape. Rabbit also gets special mention for listening to me howl and wail (and for wailing with me) on all things pertaining to period accuracy and research.
> 
> I'm also doing things a little differently for this fic--I decided to get ambitious and do one illustration for each chapter of the story. If you'd like to see them, go hit up the art tag on my Tumblr (eclecticmuses)!
> 
> The title comes from [Heaven by One Republic](https://youtu.be/8qp30EgrYuM), which also functions as a pretty nice companion piece to the fic. Check it out.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are my lifeblood. Hope you enjoy the fic! I'll be updating on Mondays.

“All these handsome Yanks here, and I still can’t find one to dance with me.”

Jemma Simmons looked away from the packed dance floor, where she’d been watching couples moving to the swinging beat of the live band playing, and turned to her friend who had just spoken. Bobbi Morse was watching the boisterous crowd too, a small smile curving up her lips. It was clear from the expression on her face that she wasn’t truly disappointed by her lack of a dance partner; rather, she was amused and enjoying herself.

“It’s only because you’re already married,” Jemma pointed out. “They’re probably intimidated by your wedding ring. They don’t want to risk the anger of a fellow GI.” She nodded at the shining gold band that adorned Bobbi’s left hand. “Not that your husband is American.”

Bobbi laughed. “I think that’s my favorite part of all this. Lance is English, like you.” She picked up her coffee to take a sip. “But I’d like to see a regular GI try to handle a SAS soldier.”

That made Jemma laugh as well. She’d yet to meet Bobbi’s husband, as he’d been away fighting in North Africa and Italy, but everyone knew that the British Special Air Service was an elite unit. Most of the lowly American privates at the club couldn’t even hope to square up to him.

“I don’t understand why you’re calling them Yanks when you’re one, too,” said Alice Newell, who was sitting adjacent to Bobbi at their little square table. “Maybe you’ve just lived here too long, now.”

Bobbi shrugged slightly, her smile widening. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” she replied. “Besides, they’re all the same and it’s a good way to lump them together. How do you Brits put it, again? Over--”

“Oversexed, overpaid, and over here,” Alice and Jemma replied together, laughing at the phrase some of the more envious British men had coined for their American counterparts.

Grinning, Bobbi rolled her eyes. “That’s right.”

“I’d like to get with a Yank if I can tonight,” Alice said, her eyes shining. “I could use a new pair of nylons.”

Jemma smiled. “I’m sure you’ll get your chance. There’s plenty of men here. And you, too, Bobbi, if you really do want to dance. Hannah found herself one, after all.” She looked back toward the dance floor, where their other friend had recently disappeared into the throng with an eager young GI.

Bobbi nodded and took another sip of her coffee. “All we have to do is look young and beautiful and available, and they’ll come right to us.”

It was the last week of April, 1944, and while Britain was still caught tight in the clutches of war, Piccadilly Circus in London had become a haven of respite for British citizens and American troops alike. Rainbow Corner was a vibrant club established by the American Red Cross that served as a boarding house, barbershop, café, dance hall, and more to the American servicemen stationed there--and to the British girls deemed ‘nice’ enough to gain entrance. Jemma and her friends had been fortunate to receive invitations to the club while in London for the week, on leave from their jobs at the codebreaking facility at Bletchley Park. Alice suspected it was Bobbi’s presence that had secured them their invitations, her being an American and all, but Jemma had reasoned their status as government employees had done the trick.

And while they might not have found dancing partners yet, a night out on the town was sorely needed by all the girls. Their jobs at Bletchley Park were difficult and tedious, requiring intense concentration, which led to heavy amounts of stress and fatigue. Bobbi was a cryptanalyst, Alice and Hannah filed data punch cards for the computers, and Jemma translated decoded German messages. They worked long shifts six days a week, and were granted a week’s leave four times a year. The girls, who all lived together in a house in Bletchley near the facility, had chosen to take their leave together in London to visit family and hopefully have a spot of fun, a bit of light in a seemingly endless, dreary conflict.

Jemma was glad for it. She couldn’t tell her parents about what she did at Bletchley, due to the classified nature of her work, and so her conversations with them on her visits had been rather bland and rote, limited to commenting on the war effort and old friends her mum had seen out at the shops. A rousing American party, _that_ she could tell them about.

Next to her, Alice suddenly perked up, her expression sharpening like a hunter zeroing in on its prey. “Look,” she said, elbowing Jemma. “We’ve got some new arrivals.” Bobbi set her coffee down, and they all looked over toward the entrance to the dance hall. They’d chosen a table in a prime location--right on the edge of the dance floor and within sight of the doors--to maximize their visibility to any soldier who happened to come in. Coming through the doors now was a group of about five GIs, all dressed smartly in their crisp uniforms. They stopped just inside and scanned the room avidly, clearly in search of company.

“Should we get up?” Alice hissed, leaning in so only Bobbi and Jemma could hear her--not that there was much chance of anyone eavesdropping, not with the live band playing. “Should we go and catch their attention before anyone else does?”

“No, no,” Bobbi replied, laying a hand on Alice’s arm. “Remember, let them come to us. You don’t want to look _too_ eager, do you? I know--oh, _oh_ , look, they saw us, they’re heading this way!”

All three of them sat up straighter and discreetly patted at their hair as the GIs walked toward them, trying to appear casual and as if they hadn’t just been talking about them. “Good evening, ladies,” their leader drawled as his group arrived at their table. “Looks like you could use a little company.”

“We might be in the market for some,” Alice replied sweetly, batting her eyelashes up at him. “What brings you here tonight?”

“Me and my pals here are out on a weekend pass,” the soldier explained, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at his compatriots. His expression was confident as he snapped his chewing gum, almost smug--just like many of the GIs Jemma had met--and he had a distinctive accent. “And Rainbow Corner’s the place to be,” he added. “What about you, what are you girls after?”

“These two just graduated from Cambridge,” Bobbi said smoothly, nodding at both Jemma and Alice. “I’m taking them out to celebrate.”

Jemma was grateful that Bobbi was on hand to sell their cover story; while her skills at discretion had evolved during her time at Bletchley out of necessity, she still wasn’t completely confident of her ability to sell a lie. Thankfully for them, the GIs in front of them seemed to eat Bobbi’s tale up.

“Oh, so you’re college girls!” The lead soldier’s eyebrows had gone up at hearing Bobbi’s American accent, but with this new bit of information, the men behind him were all murmuring amongst themselves with grins on their faces. The leader pointed over his shoulder again, his smile widening. “You might be more Fitzy’s speed then, since he’s got a fancy degree, too.” He turned to look at one of his friends, who Jemma hadn’t previously noticed as he’d been hanging back behind the rest of them, and gestured for him to come forward. “Hey, get up here, pretty boy, and make some friends.”

The other soldiers all laughed as their leader grabbed the man he’d pointed to by the arm and hauled him forward, then clapped him hard on the shoulder before retreating behind him with a satisfied grin on his face. But the poor man left in front looked like he’d much rather be anywhere else--eyes wide, a tense hunch to his shoulders, his mouth twisted in an awkward grimace. “Er… hello,” he mumbled, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the band.

For some reason, this only made his friends laugh harder, but Jemma was distracted by the fact that the man had a Scottish accent. She looked aside at Alice and Bobbi to see if they had taken note of that as well, but Alice only smiled prettily at him and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Fitz,” he replied, pressing his thumb into the opposite palm.

Bobbi smiled. “Just Fitz? That’s an unusual name.”

Jemma watched as his cheeks colored faintly and he grimaced again. “Ah--no. My first name’s Leopold, actually, but I don’t really care for it, so I prefer to go by my last name.”

“That’s really for the best,” his friend piped up, clapping him roughly on the shoulder again. “Can’t exactly go around sounding like a Kraut, can he?”

The soldiers all laughed again, making Fitz cringe and duck his head slightly. Taking pity on him, Jemma shifted to face him on her seat and said, “Where did you attend university?”

Fitz looked up at her and blinked twice before finding his voice. “Um--St. Andrews. I read English Literature.”

His friends, who Jemma was beginning to suspect might not actually be friends at all, snickered. But she thought it was rather nice--not very far away from her own degrees in French and German. “That’s lovely,” she replied earnestly, leaning forward. “But--please forgive my curiosity, I have to ask--how did a Scotsman end up in the American army?”

If anything, Fitz’s cheeks flushed an even deeper red, his face screwing up in embarrassment. “Oh--um--I’m not with the army,” he said. “I mean--I _am_ , I’m just--I’m not a soldier. I’m a war correspondent.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Jemma said softly, as the rest of the soldiers burst out into fresh laughter at her misconception. Upon closer inspection, she saw that there wasn’t a rank patch on the sleeves of his uniform jacket, but there was a small thin bar with the words ‘war correspondent’ embroidered on it just above his left breast pocket.

“Of course he’s not a real soldier,” his not-friend laughed while the others poked at Fitz in their mirth, jostling him. “He only got a week’s worth of training with a rifle, and you should’ve seen him when he came back from his first training jump. He almost lost his lunch!”

Fitz tugged at the hem of his jacket. “I earned my jump wings,” he muttered defensively.

Feeling the sudden urge to save him--Fitz seemed harmless, and certainly undeserving of the teasing he was receiving--Jemma stood up from her seat. “Would you like to dance?” she asked.

Fitz blinked again, his mouth falling slightly open in shock, and one of the soldiers whooped. Next to her, she could sense Bobbi and Alice looking up at her, surprised at her boldness. “What?” Fitz said, as though he thought she’d meant someone, or something, else.

Jemma just smiled and held out her hand to him. “Dance with me,” she repeated. This time, a chorus of jeers and catcalls arose from the men behind him, but she kept her smile steady and her hand outstretched. Fitz looked back at the leader of his group, who gave him a toothy grin and a small push forward. Then he swallowed thickly and and turned to Jemma, reaching out to take her hand. She glanced at her friends--Bobbi looked approving, while Alice looked envious that she’d found someone to dance with--before lifting her chin and giving the assembled men a haughty look, then leading Fitz toward the dance floor, the sound of the soldiers’ heckling following behind them.

“Cheers,” Fitz said once they were out of earshot. His hand in hers was warm, his grip light. “I, ah, feel like I should warn you, though--I’m not really much of a dancer.”

Jemma looked up at him and smiled, her expression pleasant again. “I’m not very skilled at it, either,” she replied as they approached the edge of the dance floor. “But I thought we could have a go at it together. Do you know how to jitterbug? I don’t, but it’s all the rage here--see?” She pointed out across the crowd dancing away in front of them. “We could try it.”

Fitz looked at the throng apprehensively. “Oh, I--um--” He turned back to her and winced, his cheeks coloring again. “I’ll only step on your feet.”

Just then, the band finished the uptempo song they’d been playing. The couples packing the dance floor all stopped and applauded, and Fitz seemed to let out a sigh of relief. Then the band picked back up with a slower song, the opening strains of “I’m Getting Sentimental Over You” drifting over the room. Jemma gave Fitz’s hand a squeeze. “Think you can handle this?” she asked.

He bit his lip, then nodded. Drawing her just onto the edge of the dance floor, he carefully wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, easing them into a slow sway to the beat of the music. Jemma settled her hand on his shoulder and relaxed, hoping to put him at ease; Fitz felt a little tense, like he was nervous. She’d gathered that perhaps he was a bit shy, or maybe he’d never danced at all before. They turned in small circles for a moment, navigating the other couples around them and listening to the warbling vibrato of the trombone solo, until Jemma looked up at him and said, “Those men you were with… are they always so horrible to you?”

The face Fitz pulled suggested that the treatment he’d received wasn’t new, and that he was rather resigned to it. “They’re a good bunch of lads, really,” he replied. At Jemma’s skeptical look, he continued, “No, they are. They’re just suspicious of me because I didn’t go through training with them, that’s all. They think I’m a wet journalist looking for an easy story. Which I suppose I am, in a way. But I got them their 48-hour passes, so they felt obligated to bring me along tonight.”

Jemma smiled. She didn’t think there was anything easy about learning to parachute jump, as Fitz had obviously done--and he hadn’t been lying when he’d said he earned his jump wings, she could see the small silver pin affixed to his uniform jacket. She knew of other journalists who had traveled to the front lines to report on the war, and they risked their lives just as much as any soldier did. It wasn’t Fitz’s fault that his companions held a dim view of him, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Instead, she asked him, “Who do you write for?”

“The _Telegraph_ ,” Fitz replied as he directed her to dance in another slow circle. “I was hired on there straight out of university last year. On the books I’m officially a writer, but I’ve got a camera so they’ve got me doing photography as well. I’m on double duty.”

He must be very talented if the _Telegraph_ was willing to send him overseas to report on the war fresh out of university, Jemma thought. That, or they were eager not to lose a reporter to conscription. “Did you volunteer before you had a chance to be called up?” she asked, curious.

Something like shame passed over Fitz’s face. “Ah, well, no, not exactly,” he said, ducking his head. “I was given a medical exemption due to an accident I had as a boy.”

Jemma frowned in faint confusion, giving him a quick glance over as they continued to dance. Fitz looked fit as a fiddle; there was nothing outwardly wrong with him to suggest him being turned down for military service. “What happened?”

“I nearly drowned.” He shook his head, playing it off as though it wasn’t important. “But I still wanted to do my part, and the _Telegraph_ was willing to send me over. So here I am.” He gave her a small, but proud, smile. “My mum thinks I’m mad.”

Jemma’s expression melted back into a smile at seeing the light in his eyes, the clear conviction that he was doing the right thing. “I might think you were mad, too, if I was your mum,” she teased. “You have your safety and health assured and yet you’re choosing to run into battle anyway? You might be at least a _bit_ barmy.”

Fitz huffed and looked at her like she was the mad one. “Well, I can’t just sit at home when there’s a war on, can I?” he said in mock affront, and Jemma laughed. “No, you laugh, but it’s true,” he added. “A few of my mates from university have already been called up since we came down. It doesn’t feel right to just stand aside and do nothing while they march off to fight for king and country.”

Sobering, Jemma smiled again and gave Fitz’s shoulder a gentle pat where her hand rested on it. “I understand. There’s very little that I as a woman can do, so I can fully appreciate the desire to aid the war effort where one is able.”

He brightened a little, seemingly glad for her appreciation, and briefly looked over her shoulder as he steered them past a nearby couple. His posture was much more at ease now. “Your friend said you just left university yourself, yeah?” he said. “Do you have any plans now?”

Jemma looked down. Of course, she couldn’t tell him what she really did, which was a shame because she actually liked him. As such the lie they’d concocted sat a little acrid on her tongue, but there was nothing she could do about it. No one, not even her parents, could know what she did at Bletchley Park.

But since he was nice and pleasant and not a terrible slow dancer, she wanted to give him as close an approximation to the truth as she could. “Actually,” she said, speaking as though she really was divulging a great secret, “I’ve just got a job working for the war effort myself, through the Foreign Office.”

Fitz’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, is that so?”

She nodded, privately relieved her lie had sold. “Yes. I won’t know what all it entails until I start. But, see, I’m doing my part as well.”

He smiled then, and Jemma thought that he had a very lovely face when he did that--his eyes crinkled up at the corners and it turned his expression almost boyishly handsome. “So you are,” he said. “Your parents must be very proud of you.”

Jemma rolled her eyes in amusement. Her parents thought she was doing low-level translation work for the British diplomatic corps, which was a version of the truth, but it was something they felt was a waste of her talents and not much of a source of pride. “I’m not sure they are, actually,” she replied wryly. “I think they would be happy if I just found a nice man to settle down with.”

“Oh. I see.” She was even further amused to see Fitz blush again and look away. Wanting to make him smile again, she thought to ask him more about his studies at St. Andrews, but before she could, the song they were dancing to came to an end, and the band immediately segued into a new, faster tune. Fitz’s eyes widened and he tightened his hand around hers, pulling her a little closer. “Oh, no,” he muttered, as the couples around them started dancing vigorously. “I can’t do this, you’ll regret it.”

He dropped his arm from around her waist and led her by the hand back off the edge of the dance floor, where he let go and exhaled, looking around. “It looks like your friends found someone to dance with,” he said after a minute, nodding. Jemma followed his gaze and saw that the table she had occupied with Bobbi and Alice was now empty.

“Good for them,” she replied. “I know Alice was very keen on it.” She looked back up at him. “And now, I’ve got you.”

Fitz smiled again, that same charming grin that had made his face light up earlier. “Yeah?” he said, taking a small step toward her. “Look--I’m rubbish at this sort of dancing, but would you like to get a drink? They’ve got a soda fountain here. I don’t know if you’ve ever had any before, but it’s really good.”

His earnestness only solidified Jemma’s opinion that Fitz was a sweet, pleasant man, and one she definitely wanted to spend more time talking to. It made any disappointment she’d felt over him putting an end to their dancing melt away. “Of course,” she said, giving him her best smile in return. “Lead the way.”

She was thrilled when he took up her hand again, so as not to lose her in the crowded room, and tugged her in the direction of the soda fountain. Once they had their drinks in hand, they found another table to sit at, and she had her first taste of Coca-Cola. It was cold but sweet and delightfully fizzy, and the expression on her face as she sipped the bubbly liquid up through her straw made Fitz laugh.

From there, they fell into deep conversation, meandering from topic to topic as the night progressed. Jemma asked Fitz more about his study of literature, listening to him expound at length on his love of science fiction and English writers of the genre such as Shelley, Verne, and Stapeldon. He wanted to be a novelist, he said, and had sketched out an idea for a tale of someone stranded on a distant planet, struggling to survive and make their way back home. He’d volunteered to go on assignment before he could begin any work on it, though. In turn, Jemma told Fitz about studying French and German at Cambridge and all of the quiet hours she’d spent tucked away in the college libraries working on translations, surrounded by stacks of old books. Fitz listened intently, and said it must have been amazing to study there; the libraries at St. Andrews were well-stocked, but he was sure they couldn’t compare to an institution like Cambridge.

They learned that they were both only children, which was something of a rarity, though neither of them had minded growing up without siblings. Fitz’s eyes shone with love and respect when he spoke of his mother, who he described as a hard-working woman who had sacrificed much in order for him to have a good education. Jemma told him about her father, who had always encouraged her passions and interests, particularly her love of languages when she decided it was what she wanted to pursue at university. Fitz had looked a little wistful, which struck her as curious, but he otherwise seemed to enjoy hearing about the good relationship she had with her parents.

Fitz told her how he’d fallen in love with monkeys after seeing some at the Glasgow zoo, and Jemma reminisced about the gentle old spaniel her parents had owned when she was a child. Their conversation even wandered back to university as they complained about their least favorite professors, extolled the virtues of their favorites, and compared troublesome classmates.

Through it all, Jemma found that while Fitz might have been shy to begin with, he was incredibly easy to talk to once he gained a bit of confidence and warmed to a topic, and he was very intelligent on a great deal of subjects. He was opinionated without being arrogant, something she found very refreshing, and he seemed to truly value her views on any subject they debated. She’d never been able to talk to a man the way she could Fitz, and it was like a revelation. While the men at Bletchley were all brilliant and her intellectual equal as a matter of course, the atmosphere there didn’t lend itself well to socializing, and on the rare occasions when it did most of them were lost in a fog of numbers and puzzles, their minds still mostly on their work. Thus, Fitz was like a ray of sunshine after an endless cloudy day.

She easily could have lost herself in talking to him for several more hours if Fitz hadn’t casually glanced at his wristwatch and then done a quick double-table, sucking in a sharp breath. “ _Blast_ ,” he muttered then looked up at her with an expression of extreme regret. “It’s getting late,” he said apologetically. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go soon if I’m going to make my train.”

Jemma bit back a noise of disappointment. She was truly enjoying spending time with him and didn’t want their night to end, but that was part and parcel of wartime, wasn’t it? Fleeting moments stolen between two individuals before one or both had to leave for parts unknown, never to meet again. He must have seen it in her face, because Fitz gave her a gentle smile and added, “Can I walk you home? If you’re ready to leave, that is. If it’s not too far, I should have enough time for that, at least.”

That brightened her mood back up considerably, and Jemma nodded as she smiled gratefully. “I’d like that,” she replied. “Very much. I’m not very far away. Come on.”

Outside the club, a full moon lit London’s darkened streets, providing a reasonable amount of illumination for pedestrians and vehicles alike to see the way through the blackout. Fitz still gallantly offered her his arm, and she gladly took it, feeling a bit regal as they walked away from the club.

“Do we need to take the Tube?” he asked as they strolled down the street. “The Piccadilly station is just up ahead.”

“No,” Jemma replied, and thought that even if it were necessary, she might decline just to maximize her time with him. “It’s only about a ten-minute walk. Not very far at all.” She looked up at him just as he turned to smile down at her, and a plume of warmth rose in her chest, settling around her heart and staying there.

They didn’t say much as they walked; Fitz was focused on keeping them out of the street and not letting her trip over loose paving stones in the dark, and Jemma was mostly concerned with soaking up the few minutes she had remaining with him. He asked her if she lived in London, and she told him a half-truth--that she was just visiting friends for the week in order to celebrate her graduation, and would be moving on to Bletchley in a few days.

When they finally arrived at the rowhouse that Jemma was staying at with Bobbi, Alice, and the other girls, Fitz walked her up the few steps right to the front door, where he dropped her hand, turning to face her with a small sigh. His face was pale in the moonlight, his handsome features almost seeming to glow, and she knew another moment of intense regret that she would likely never see him again.

“Thank you for the company tonight, Fitz,” she said quietly, smiling at him. “And the dancing. I’m glad we met.”

Even without being able to tell for sure, she knew just from the way he ducked his head and smiled bashfully that he was blushing. “Oh, it was nothing, Jemma,” he said, clearly trying to play it casual. Then he shook his head and looked back up at her. “I mean, it wasn’t _nothing_. The honor is all mine.”

Jemma bit her lip to keep her smile from growing wider, even as it felt like her heart expanded inside her chest. There was so much she wanted to say but couldn’t properly articulate, and there would never be enough time, anyway. He would be going away to war soon. Instead, she said, “Look after yourself, alright? You’re going to do a wonderful job reporting.” She had to tell herself that, because the alternative--a sweet, bright young man like Fitz never coming back home--didn’t bear thinking about.

Fitz smiled again. “Good luck with your new job,” he replied. He lingered for a moment then, obviously wanting to say something more. Jemma could only imagine what it might be, but she knew he had a train to catch, so she decided to save him from himself.

“Goodnight, Fitz,” she said, giving him one last smile.

He nodded, then sighed again. “Right. Goodnight, Jemma.”

Then he leaned down to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek. But he must have heard how her breath caught as his lips touched her skin, because he paused as he pulled away, hesitating near enough for her to feel his breath on her face. His proximity was so unexpectedly intoxicating that Jemma couldn’t help but impulsively surge forward to close the distance between them, capturing his mouth with hers in a firm, full kiss.

Fitz responded immediately, his hands coming up to lightly grip her arms as he pressed back into the kiss. It spun out for an endless, exhilarating moment, making Jemma feel close to dizzy from the softness and warmth of his lips and the pure thrilling sensation that came from just kissing someone she liked very, very much, until she finally forced herself to break away. When she opened her eyes, Fitz was staring at her with a positively thunderstruck look on his face, an expression she was sure she reflected. She was suddenly sure of one thing: she didn’t want him to leave, not now and possibly not ever, not until she had the chance to know him fully and completely before he slipped away from her forever.

“Would you like to come inside?” she blurted, all thoughts of trains to catch gone completely from her mind. Then she blanched. “For tea,” she added hastily. “Do you want to come in for some tea?”

It was the flimsiest of excuses--the hour was late, and it wouldn’t be right of her to stretch their tea ration, but it had been the first thing that sprung to mind. Jemma tried not to visibly cringe at her awkwardness, but fortunately Fitz either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“Yeah,” he said breathlessly, still staring at her. Apparently making his train didn’t matter to him anymore, either, something for which she was very glad. “Yes.”

She licked her lips and exhaled, then nodded. “Right, then. If you’ll just--follow me.”

Jemma turned to open the front door into the house, taking a few steps inside the entryway before standing to one side so Fitz could enter as well. He came in quietly, and as she moved to close the door behind them, throwing them into darkness, she could swear that the rapid beating of her heart was loud enough for him to hear.

Normally, one of the girls left a lamp on in the hallway for the others to see by if they were out late, but that wasn’t the case tonight. She could barely discern Fitz’s outline from the thin sliver of moonlight peeking out from behind the blackout curtain covering the narrow window by the door, and not knowing exactly where he was made her heart race even more. She’d never invited a man in before, and certainly not like this, with only a thin pretense of respectability holding her up. But he’d followed her inside, so the only way to move now was forward.

“Fitz?” she whispered, taking a step toward him. “Where-- _oof_.”

Jemma stopped as she bumped into the solid front of his chest; he was closer than she’d thought. She felt his hands come up to brace her by the arms as he murmured a soft apology, and then--she wasn’t sure which of them moved, if it was him or her or both of them at the same time--they were kissing again. Fitz’s arms wrapped around her and pulled her closer as he moved his lips against hers in slow, searching kisses that gradually grew more and more heated. Jemma let her hands creep up to his shoulders, then his neck, and finally slid one into his hair as she slanted his mouth open to deepen the kiss. Fitz groaned quietly as she stroked her tongue over his and tightened his arms around her, and the sound made a hot thrill race through her.

Being in the dark had heightened all of her senses, turning every touch, every breath, every sound sharper, and Jemma had never felt more alive than she did in that moment in Fitz’s arms. His hands splayed wide over her back were warm through the material of her dress, his mouth on hers firm and insistent, his curls springy-soft where they slipped through her fingers. No one had ever kissed her like this, with such care and fervent ardor, and it only made her want him more. It was only when Fitz nudged at her, backing her carefully up to press her into the wall as they continued to kiss, that she remembered where she was.

They couldn’t stay where they were. One of her housemates could come downstairs or in through the front door and find her recklessly kissing a strange man in the hallway. It wouldn’t be the most horrible thing, but she certainly would bear the brunt of her friends’ gentle teasing for a while. It took a great amount of willpower, but she reluctantly broke their kiss.

“Fitz,” she whispered again. “Wait.”

Fitz, who she could feel leaning in for another kiss, stopped with his forehead resting on hers. “What?” he breathed. “Oh--shite, I’m sorry, did I--”

“No, no, you’re fine,” Jemma rushed to reassure him, fumbling in the dark to squeeze his shoulders. He was still close enough that his breath was fanning over her lips, and it made her feel almost drunk on him, eager to lean in for another kiss of longing. But she didn’t, and shored up her courage instead, swallowing thickly. “Just--will you come with me? Upstairs?”

There was a beat of silence before she felt Fitz nod, his nose bumping alongside hers. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely, just like he had outside, and her heart leapt. “Yes.”

She took in a deep breath and slid one of her hands down until she found his, then tangled their fingers together, giving them a light squeeze. “Right. Come along, then,” she said, aiming for coy but likely just sounding a little nervous. Then she slipped out from between Fitz and the wall and walked carefully through the dark to the staircase, pulling him along behind her and feeling her anticipation build with every step they climbed together.

-:-

After, they both huddled on Jemma’s bed beneath the blankets, lying on their sides facing each other and just drinking the other in. Jemma had pulled one of the blackout curtains aside a bit to let the moon shine in, and she was currently memorizing the way Fitz looked in the dim, milky light, his face so close to hers on the pillow. He was slowly tracing his fingers up and down the length of her spine, captivated by the softness of her skin; he’d said as much earlier, and she was only happy to let him indulge himself more. She didn’t think she’d ever felt more relaxed or content in her life. She’d be happy to spend hours just like this, outlining the shape of his face with her eyes, counting every detail, learning the way he breathed.

“Can you stay?” she whispered. They’d been trying to keep quiet so as not to disturb any of her housemates who might already be home and asleep. Lying in the dark with him had provided a sense of being cut off and alone, though, maintaining the heightened sense of intimacy that had begun downstairs.

Fitz let out a little sigh as his hand passed between her shoulder blades, his mouth turning down in a slight frown. “I’m afraid not,” he replied. “Not really. I’ve got to be back before morning review or the sergeant will have my head.” Seeing her face fall, he paused his hand’s path over her back to gently tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “But if I’m on the first train out of Paddington in the morning, I should be able to make it in time. I can stay that long, at least. If that’s alright?”  
  
Relief settled over her as Jemma realized he wouldn’t have to leave immediately. “That’s more than alright,” she said, smiling. “I want you to stay.”

A smile spread over his face in reply, and Fitz stroked his hand over the crown of her head before returning it to her back. “Can I write to write to you?” he asked, his voice turning a little shy. “Once I get back to camp, I mean.”

Jemma’s smile widened, and she drew a lazy, affectionate shape over his chest with one finger. “I like you, Leo Fitz,” she replied with a hint of a tease, just to see him smile again. “So you may. I’ll give you my address in the morning before you leave.”

It worked--Fitz did smile again, equal parts pleased, eager, and earnest. “Brilliant. I’ll give you mine, too. I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be here in England--the army’s been doing a lot of training exercises lately, so I think they’re finally gearing up for the big invasion--but it would be nice to get a letter from you.”

Jemma thought of the work she’d been doing at Bletchley, all of the German Army intelligence messages she’d decoded referring to a buildup of Allied troops near Dover, just across the English Channel from Calais in occupied France--which she knew to be a ruse on the part of the Allies--and suspected that Fitz was probably right. She pushed that thought aside, though. “Of course I’ll write to you,” she promised. “There’s still so much I want to talk to you about.”     

“Oh--me too. So much.” Fitz’s eyes shone as he leaned in to kiss her, soft and sweet. Jemma sank into it, savoring the taste of his lips. When he broke away, he nuzzled her nose briefly before shifting to roll onto his back, getting his arm around her and pulling her into his side. She immediately pillowed her head on his chest, slipping her arm over his waist and settling in against him. “Come on, let’s get some sleep,” he murmured. “We’ll be glad for the rest in the morning.”  
  
There was a part of Jemma that wanted to stay awake, to make the most out of the time she had left with him, but she couldn’t argue with him--not when she knew he had an early train to catch, followed by what was likely to be a full day of duties. She didn’t want him to slack on her account. So she snuggled deeper into his side, whispered “goodnight, Fitz,” and closed her eyes, letting his warmth and the reassurance of his presence lull her to sleep.

-:-

Early the next morning, Jemma sat on the edge of her bed wearing her nightdress and house robe, writing in a slim notebook while Fitz put his uniform back on. Making sure her address was neatly written and clearly legible, she set her pen aside and carefully tore the sheet of paper from the book, folding it crisply in half before tearing it once again in two.

“Here’s my address,” she said, standing and walking over to where Fitz stood in front of the wardrobe mirror, doing up his tie. “So you can write to me whenever you get a chance.”

He gave her a small smile as he took the paper from her, but it morphed into a frown of confusion as he squinted down at it in the pale pre-dawn light. “Your address is with the Foreign Office, too?” he asked.

Jemma waffled for a second. “Er--yes,” she replied. “That’s where I’ll be when I start my job with the government next week. They’ve got an office out in Bletchley, um--away from all the bombing here in London, you see.” She pasted on what she hoped was a convincing smile. “I’m supposed to route all of my post through there.”

Fortunately, he seemed to buy it. “Makes sense,” he said, and strode to where his jacket was folded over the end of the bed frame. Folding the paper in half, he slipped it into the breast pocket and added, “Have you got your pen? I’ll write mine down for you.”

Jemma nodded and picked up her pen from the bed, handing it to him along with the other half of her sheet of paper. She watched as he sat down and picked up her notebook to write on. It only took him a moment, and then he gave her everything back. As he stood to put his jacket on, Jemma set her notebook and pen aside and looked at the paper he’d given her. The address he’d written was for a place called Ramsbury, in Wiltshire.

“You can write to me directly through the post office in the village,” Fitz said, buttoning up his jacket. “It’ll be faster that way, rather than using the army’s mail service.”

“I do appreciate expediency,” Jemma replied lightly, tucking his address into her notebook. Fitz grinned at her, then just as quickly sobered as he sighed. He was fully dressed and ready to leave, and there was no time for him to linger. She went to him and unnecessarily tugged at the lapels of his jacket, smoothing out invisible wrinkles, then gave him a bracing smile. “I’ll see you to the door,” she said. Fitz nodded and turned to head for the bedroom door.

“I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything to eat before you go,” she added quietly as they went down the stairs.

Fitz waved an unconcerned hand. “Don’t worry about it. I should be back in time to eat at the mess tent.” Then they arrived at the front door and he stopped, facing her. “Well… this is it.”

Jemma swallowed down the sudden lump that had risen in her throat and managed a small smile. “So it is.”

The look he gave her then was soft, almost reverent, and he lifted a hand to cup her cheek as he leaned down to kiss her, his lips moving gently against hers. She fought the urge to cling to him, knowing he couldn’t stay, and tried instead to memorize everything she could about him in these last few seconds. When he finally pulled back, he brushed his thumb over her cheek and smiled. Jemma’s heart flipped in her chest, and she swallowed again as she opened the door for him.

“I’ll write to you as soon as I can,” he promised, stepping out onto the front stoop. “I’ve got your address right here.” He patted his left breast pocket.

Leaning against the door handle, Jemma smiled at him affectionately. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Fitz smiled again, that same bright smile that she’d already come to adore on him, and quickly leaned in for one last, quick kiss. “Right,” he said briskly, straightening up. “I’ve really got to go.” He turned to go down the steps, looking back at her. “You’ll hear from me soon.”

Jemma smiled back at him. “Goodbye, Fitz.”

He glanced back at her again as he headed off down the pavement, and once more when he’d made it only one house down. Jemma stayed at the door to watch him go, feeling an odd mix of longing and bittersweet sadness at having to see him leave. When he reached the street corner, he looked back one more time, and when he saw her still standing at the door, he raised a hand in a brief wave. Even at that distance, she could see his smile.

Then he was gone. Smiling to herself, Jemma stepped back inside and softly shut the door. Then a creak on the floorboards startled her and she gasped, her head whipping up to see Bobbi standing at the top of the stairs in her robe, looking down at her with an amused expression on her face.

“Was that Mr. Fitz I just saw leaving?” she asked, her tone teasing.

Jemma bit her lip. She didn’t know how long Bobbi had been standing there or how much she’d seen, but there was no point in lying either way. “It was,” she said primly. Her friend could tease her, but she wouldn’t be ashamed. However… “I’m sorry if we woke you,” she added. “We tried to keep quiet.”

“I’m sure,” Bobbi smirked. When Jemma just blushed at her insinuation, she shook her head and started down the stairs. “No, you didn’t wake me up. You know I’m an early riser.” Coming off the last step, she gestured for Jemma to follow her into the kitchen. “Come on. I’ll make us some tea and you can tell me all about it.”

-:-

When Fitz walked into the mess hut a couple of hours later, freshly changed into his regular uniform, he was greeted by a rousing chorus of cheers and whistles from the squadmates he’d been out with over the weekend. “Well, if it isn’t Romeo, finally come crawling back in from a night of _love_ ,” Tibbet sang, looking like Christmas had come early. When Fitz merely set his tray of food down with a sigh and gave him a look, Tibbet added, “You’re lucky you’re not real Army, pretty boy. We were giving it ten more minutes before Rensin declared you AWOL and killed your writing gig.”

Fitz rolled his eyes. “I was coming back,” he said, and shoved a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.

“Uh-huh,” Tibbet said, sounding unconvinced. “When you didn’t show at the train station last night, we all knew you’d gone home with that girl who chatted you up. So? How’d it go? Did you screw her?”

Tibbet was a good soldier, but he could be a real pain in the arse sometimes. Fitz gave him another sour look. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” he replied sternly.

That earned him some laughs from the men surrounding them, but Tibbet wasn’t deterred. “Oh, don’t give me that bullshit,” he said. “You don’t go off with a girl like that and not even _try_. Or were you too chicken?”

Fitz spent a moment pushing his food around his plate with his fork, considering his options. He didn’t want to take the affront to his pride lying down, but he didn’t want to impugn Jemma’s honor, either. Finally, he said, “Well, we didn’t sit up all night talking about books.”

The soldiers at the table burst into cheers and laughs again, and even Tibbet looked amused at his comeback. “Fitz went and got himself the clap,” one of them said. Fitz shot him a dark look down the table.

“She’s not that kind of girl,” he said sharply.

“Sure she ain’t,” Tibbet countered easily. “But we’ll ask you how you’re doing again in two weeks. Now hurry up and eat before Rensin sees you.”

He clapped Fitz hard on the shoulder before standing to leave and really, Fitz thought drily, with friends like these, who needed enemies?

-:-

Jemma received her first letter from Fitz less than a week after she last saw him. She eagerly snatched the envelope bearing her name out of the small pile of post that had come in that morning and took it up to her room in the house that she shared with a few other girls at Bletchley. Sitting on her bed, she carefully tore open the envelope and pulled the letter out, unfolding it to read what Fitz had written.

 _Dear Jemma,_   
_I’m safely back in Ramsbury and it’s once again business as usual with the American army. You’ll be happy to know that I did arrive on time and didn’t face any discipline. The men all had something to say about it though, like men do, but don’t worry--it was all in good fun and nothing truly mean-spirited was said._  
_I’ve been putting together an article on what life has been like here for the American soldiers in England and how the locals are taking to them that is almost ready to publish. It keeps me busy while the soldiers are training. I’m required to attend drills on occasion as well, in order to make sure I can be of help when the time comes, but most of my time is spent observing, taking photographs, and writing. There’s not much else to do out here. Ramsbury is very small, though it’s nice country and the people who live here are very nice. I’m lucky enough to be billeted in a house on the high street with one of the battalion officers. Imagine if I had to keep with the enlisted men! They dislike me enough already as it is._  
 _All of this is important for me to write an accurate story on what the average soldier’s life is like, which is what I’m interested in, but I must confess that I’m a little eager for the invasion to begin. It’s safe here in Ramsbury, but the real stories will be found in France and beyond._  
 _It’s almost time for dinner, so I must be going. I find myself thinking about the evening we spent together often and wish I could see you again. Hopefully this letter will find you well and I’ll hear back from you soon._  
 _Yours,  
Fitz._

Jemma reread the last words of his letter with a small smile on her face, her thumb lightly tracing the word _Yours_. It was amazing how such a simple letter could evoke so much emotion in her: happiness, joy, hope, even a pinch of dread, because he’d said he was looking forward to going to war. She thought he might very well get his chance soon. But she didn’t want to focus on that. Instead, she reread the parts where he said he was doing well, and where he confessed to thinking about her, and felt her heart glow in her chest.

 She reread his letter a few more times before folding it up and gently inserting it back in the envelope. Then she went to fetch her notebook so she could immediately write him back. As she did, she thought that she never could have anticipated that she, Jemma Simmons, would end up with a wartime sweetheart, exchanging letters to bridge the distance between them, but here she was. And it was quite possibly the best feeling in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

Fitz shoved a spoonful of beef stew into his mouth before eagerly picking up the envelope lying on the table next to his bowl. The mail clerk had come around with the post just before he’d left for the mess hut, and he’d had two letters for him: one from his mum, and one from Jemma.

The letter from his mum he had slipped into his breast pocket to read later, but the one from Jemma was much more immediately important and exciting. So, offering up a silent apology to his mum, he’d taken Jemma’s letter and left quickly for the mess hut so he could read it as soon as he sat down.

However, he’d only just unfolded the letter from its envelope when it was snatched from his hands by someone behind him. “What’s this, another letter from your mother?” Tibbet asked, holding it close to his face to squint at it.

A lance of panic knifed through Fitz, and he reached out to try and grab the letter back. “Hey, hand that over.”

Tibbet ignored him, holding the paper out of his reach. “‘Dear Fitz,’” he read, “‘I was so pleased to receive your letter, especially so soon after we parted’--oh, _hey_ , is this from a girl?!”

Fitz’s cheeks flushed. He was really in for it now. “Give it _back_ ,” he demanded. “It’s personal.”

Tibbet just grinned at him over the top of the letter. “Does Fitzy have a _sweetheart_?” he teased. “Is it that lady you went home with in London? Gotta say, I’m surprised she’s still giving you the time of day. She was way out of your league.”

Fitz knew that, but it wasn’t something he wanted to hear said aloud, lest somehow Jemma realize it too. “For Christ’s sake, Tibbet, just hand it back,” he ground out, close to losing his patience. He didn’t want to make a scene and risk incurring the wrath of their sergeant, but if Tibbet was going to be an arse about it, he would do what he had to do. He wouldn’t be the one who’d be stuck on cleaning detail, anyway.

Tibbet shook his head. “No, I think I want to find out more about this girl of yours--”

“Just give it back to him, Tibbet,” a tired voice said. Fitz looked down the table to see another one of the soldiers in the squad he was assigned to--Boyce, he thought his name was--giving them a thoroughly fed-up look. “You wouldn’t want him reading your letters, would you?”

“I don’t get letters,” Tibbet shot back.

Boyce raised a mild eyebrow. “You mean to tell me you don’t have a girl back home who writes to you?”

Tibbet scowled. “No,” he spat, “and neither do you. You only get letters from your mother and your grandma.” But he dropped Jemma’s letter in Fitz’s lap, who scrambled to catch it before it hit his stew. “Don’t choke when you write her back,” he said, and slapped him on the back before heading in the direction of the mess line.

Fitz bit back the smile he’d been fighting at Tibbet and Boyce’s repartee and gave the other man a grateful look before turning back to Jemma’s letter. Carefully unfolding it again, he finally began to read.

_Dear Fitz,  
I was so pleased to receive your letter, especially so soon after we parted. It was a wonderful surprise. I’m glad to know that you made it back to Ramsbury safely and that you didn’t get any trouble from your superiors. I did worry a little. _

Oh. She’d _worried_ about him. A tiny plume of warmth rose in his chest.

_I’m officially in Bletchley now. It’s very quiet compared to London, which is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it’s much safer--there’s not much threat of bombs here--but a curse because there’s not as much to do and sometimes it can be a bit boring. But my work keeps me very busy. I wish I could tell you about it, but as it’s for the government it’s all very secret and I must keep quiet--loose lips sink ships, and all. I’m sure you understand._ _  
_ _I’ve been thinking about all the conversations we had at Rainbow Corner and I can’t tell you how much I wish we could talk again. There’s only so much we can say at once through letters. But I’m very happy to write to you, as often as I can. I want to hear more about your thoughts on English folk tales and why you think Charlotte is the superior Bronte sister. There’s so much we weren’t able to talk about in depth because we kept pulling ourselves from topic to topic, but I want to know what you think of everything._  
_I hope this letter finds you well. I’m looking forward to your response, and eagerly await its arrival in the post._  
 _Jemma_

If he wasn’t careful, his grin was going to stretch off his face and then everyone would know that he had a sweetheart. Or a girl. Or… whatever they were, whatever one called two people who had spent the night together but were only just broaching a new friendship. But the uncertain nature of his relationship with Jemma couldn’t put a damper on the good mood her letter had left him in. He felt like a king. It was all more than Fitz had hoped for--that she wanted more letters from him, that she sounded _excited_ for them, that the connection he’d felt between them seemed to be mutual. He’d never met a girl that he’d been so instantly attracted to and, better yet, who appeared to be just as smitten with him as well. _Obviously_ , his mind supplied, if that one night had been anything to go by. But was it really possible that a girl he’d met by chance would turn out to be the perfect one for him?

Possibly, he thought, rereading her letter one more time before carefully folding it back up and slipping it into its envelope. Possibly. All he knew was that he’d never felt like this before--a giddy mix of hope, anticipation, and excitement. It was a feeling he found himself eager to lean into.                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

-:-

Early one morning a few weeks later, at the end of May, Fitz was in his room at the house he was billeted at in Ramsbury when he heard the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. A second later, his roommate John stuck his head around the corner of the open door.

“You’d better hurry up,” he said. “We’ve got to get over to the camp so we don’t miss the bus. Rensin will blow his top if you’re late.”

Fitz looked up from his lap, where he was hastily writing out a letter to Jemma. “Yeah, I know. I’m almost done here. I’ll be there, I promise.”

John hesitated a moment, looking unconvinced, then said, “I’ll see you there.” He disappeared back around the door and Fitz heard him going downstairs.

Turning his attention back to his letter, he hurried to finish it so he could get it to the post office before he left Ramsbury with the battalion. It was important; he was sending her his Army post office box address, because he had the strong feeling that they were heading out for good this time, and would soon be in France. Jemma would need the new address if she wanted to continue writing to him (and he sincerely hoped she would). As soon as he scrawled his name at the bottom of the page, he looked over it quickly to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.

_Dear Jemma,_  
_I can’t write long as I haven’t got much time, but I wanted to get one last letter out to you. Late last night we were informed that today we are going out by bus again into the country. In the past that’s always meant more training exercises or demonstration jumps, but it feels different this time. I think this is it. I think we’re right on the cusp of invasion, and very soon I’ll be in France. I know I said I wanted to get to where the real stories are, but I have to confess to a little bit of nervousness. I’ve had a routine here in Ramsbury, but now I don’t know what the future might hold. I don’t know where I’ll be two, three days from now._  
 _I’m including my Army address for you just in case we don’t come back here. Your letters will take a little longer to get to me, but it’s the only way to reach me once we’re in the field. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Hopefully everything will go well and we can put a swift end to the war. When I come back, maybe I can come see you in Bletchley and we can go for dinner. I’d like that._  
 _Yours,_  
 _Fitz._

He quickly added his Army address beneath his name, then capped his pen and stuffed it into his kit bag. Folding the letter up, he made sure the crease was nice and crisp before he picked up the carefully-addressed envelope that was lying on the bed next to him. He slipped the letter inside, then stood and slung his kit bag over his shoulder. Before leaving, he took one last look around the room: the two narrow beds, neatly made, and the dresser by the window. Fitz had spent over a year here with the 3rd Battalion, and now he wasn’t sure when or if he would ever return. But he had to press forward--he had volunteered for this, and he had a job to do.

His letter to Jemma tightly clutched in his hand, he turned to leave the house, heading down the high street to the post office before heading for camp and the buses that would take them into the unknown.

-:-

It was late in the evening after dinner, and Jemma was curled up in the armchair by the wireless, reading Fitz’s latest letter again. It had given her a lot to think about, but at the moment she was focused on the last part of his missive, the cheeriest part.

_Maybe I can come see you_ , he’d written. _We can go for dinner_. It had put a smile on her face, her heart pulsing with longing, and a soft sort of anticipation she’d never felt before. She knew it was silly, because as he’d said, she had no idea when he was coming back and so shouldn’t even begin to get her hopes up. But the thought of being able to go on a proper date with Fitz, that he _wanted_ to take her out for dinner, made her heart flutter and her mind race. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since they’d met, and every letter she’d received she treated like a sacred object, carefully tucked away in the back of her notebook for safekeeping. He was just as sweet and funny in writing as he was in person, and Jemma found herself growing ever more fond of him. Getting a new response in the post had become the highlight of her week.

But she might not get any more letters for awhile. Her eyes strayed back up to the top of the page, where Fitz had written that he felt like they were finally being shipped off for the invasion. Just as she had thought after receiving his first letter, she had the somewhat sinking feeling that he was right. For weeks, she’d been translating messages from the German army regarding a massive buildup of Allied troops near Dover, directly across the Channel from Pas-de-Calais. She knew the information to be patently false, but it still heavily hinted toward the truth that the real invasion was coming soon. It was just a matter of when, and where. If Fitz was correct, it could be any day now.

The idea left Jemma with mixed feelings. On one hand, if the attack was successful, it could mean an end to the war and the nightmare that had been gripping Europe for five years. On the other, it meant Fitz would be in danger. She was sure he could take care of himself, and hoped that as a writer and photographer he wouldn’t have to see direct combat, but the knowledge that he would still be at war was worrying.

She was still lost in her thoughts when Bobbi came in, a book in her hand, and stopped short at the dreamy little smile on Jemma’s face. “Is that another letter from Fitz?” she asked, a sly smirk spreading over her face.

Jemma sat up a little straighter and tried to school her expression. “It is,” she replied. “It just came in the post today.”

Bobbi sat down in the chair across from her and set her book in her lap. “I think it figures that you would find the only man with the American army who’s not a Yank to be your boyfriend,” she teased. “You’ve never been conventional.”

Despite her efforts to appear more collected, Jemma felt her cheeks flush. “He’s not my boyfriend,” she protested weakly. “We’ve not… I mean, he hasn’t asked to make anything official.” She thought of his offer to come visit her, and felt another bloom of warmth in her chest. “I’m not sure what we are, really. But I do care about him a great deal. And I always look forward to his letters.”

“And you spent the night with him,” Bobbi pointed out, not unkindly. Jemma ducked her head as she blushed even more. “That sounds like a long-distance sweetheart to me.”

Jemma looked down at the letter in her hands, her eyes lingering on how Fitz had signed it _Yours_ , the way he always did, and considered how she felt about it--how she wished things could be with him, in an ideal world. “I suppose he is,” she said after a moment, giving Bobbi a small, hopeful smile. “It’s just all very new.”

Bobbi smiled back at her and crossed her ankles, settling deeper into her seat. “I know how it all feels, the long-distance part--I’m living it, too. After Lance was assigned to the SAS, letters and the rare home leave he’s gotten has been all we’ve had for the past three years.”

It was a gentle reminder that Bobbi had been separated from her husband since shortly after the war began, and it put a slight damper on Jemma’s bubbly feelings. She could only imagine what it would be like if she and Fitz were closer, if they truly had a special relationship and he hadn’t had a medical exemption to keep him from being called up--how it would feel to miss a partner, to always be in fear of receiving a telegram from the War Office. She did worry about those things now, but she knew that for Bobbi, it was much sharper and deeper.

“It must be very hard on you,” she said with sympathy. “Being separated from him like that.”

Bobbi shrugged lightly, as stoic as she always was when it came to her own emotions. “He’s doing his duty for his country,” she replied. “He’s fighting for those of us left here. And I’m doing what I can to help keep him and the rest of our men safe through the work I do. Now, so are you. All the translating you do will help Fitz, and hopefully bring him home sooner rather than later.”

Jemma managed another smile, slowly rubbing her thumbs over the letter she still held in her hands. “I hope you’re right,” said. She paused for a moment, sobering as something new occurred to her, then added, “He’ll be spared the worst of it, don’t you think? Fitz? Since he’s only a correspondent.”

Bobbi tilted her head, humming thoughtfully. “Maybe. But if his job is to report on the war, he’ll need to be out there with the men if he’s going to photograph and write about them. He won’t be able to stay out of danger completely.”

“Oh, I know.” Jemma glanced down at Fitz’s letter again. “I just want him to be safe, that’s all.”

Soft laughter made her look back up to find Bobbi smiling at her, a teasing glint in her eye once more. “See, you really _do_ care about him,” she said triumphantly.

Jemma sniffed. “That was never in question,” she said primly, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of her lips as well.

Still grinning, Bobbi cracked open her book and turned to where she’d left her bookmark. “I still can’t believe that independent, opinionated Jemma Simmons has a long-distance sweetheart. Or a sweetheart at all.”

Jemma rolled her eyes. “Oh, just read your book.”

Bobbi laughed again, and Jemma turned back to Fitz’s letter with a smile. Even if their relationship was nebulous and not clearly defined, that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. She liked getting to know Fitz this way, writing letters and letting him reveal bits of himself piece by piece. All she could hope for was that the war ended soon so he could come home safely, and they could have their dinner date and get to know each other even better, properly.

-:-      

Night was falling over the airfield at the marshaling area outside Exeter in southwest England, but the base was bustling with activity. Dozens of C-47 aircraft were lined up in rows off the runway, all adorned with freshly-painted white and black invasion stripes in anticipation of the upcoming mission. Groups of men and Jeeps went back and forth between them, loading equipment, going over the planes and the attached gliders to make sure they were flight-ready, and issuing last-minute orders. All of the training and waiting had finally come to an end, and their day of reckoning was at hand. The invasion of France was about to begin.

Fitz walked down between two rows of planes, headed for his designated craft, kitted out in full combat gear with his camera in hand. He’d already taken a few photos of the wider scene at play, and now he was picking out smaller moments to document: soldiers checking their gear, poring over maps, darkening their faces in preparation for a nighttime assault. The photos might be important later, he felt, or at the very least appreciated for archival purposes. It was the last step before their date with destiny. The 101st Airborne would be parachuting into France hours ahead of the main invasion force, tasked with the achievement of several objectives to aid the Allies in a swift victory against the occupying German army. These final moments were the calm before the storm, the last bit of peace these men would likely know for some time. Fitz wanted to capture as much of it as he could.

Spotting a pair of soldiers standing outside the open door to a plane, adjusting each other’s parachute bags while another soldier looked on, Fitz raised his camera to take a shot. The men glanced up at the bright flash of the bulb attached to his camera, and he nodded at them before going on his way.

Walking past the next plane with a cluster of men grouped outside of it, he thought back to the stirring speech the battalion commander had delivered just before they’d split to go to their assigned locations, and the prayer he’d offered up. “We only ask this,” he’d said, “that if die we must, that we die as men would die, without complaining, without pleading and safe in the feeling that we have done our best for what we thought was right.” Fitz didn’t consider himself to be a particularly religious man, but he still found the words comforting. There was a steadiness, a surety to be found in the idea that their cause was righteous and their goal to liberate an oppressed continent, and that their honor would see them through and keep them safe. He couldn’t lie to himself, though--he knew the colonel was right and that some of these men likely wouldn’t live to see the sunrise. He could only hope that their casualties were few and far between.

Also, that he wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t as experienced as the other soldiers in the squad he was with, of course, but he’d earned his wings and was confident he could make the jump. After that, he trusted his squad to get their job done and keep him out of harm’s way while he did his. And if it came to it that he was called upon to assist in any fighting, well… he would do his best there, too.

Another reason to survive was a date with Jemma, provided she accepted the invitation he’d extended in his last letter. He felt reasonably hopeful that she would; she’d been open and engaging in all of the letters he’d received from her so far, and she always said she looked forward to hearing back from him. He’d tucked her letters away in one of the breast pockets of his uniform, close to his heart. He wanted to keep them near while he was at war, as a reminder of what he had to come back to.

Approaching his assigned plane, Fitz saw a few men gathered outside the open door, talking amongst themselves. One of them looked over as he came near and grinned; it was Dawson, one of the more friendly men in his squad. “Hey, Fitz,” he said. “You all ready to go?”

Fitz sighed as he stopped in front of him, looking over toward the wide spread of the wings of their plane, his thumbs restlessly rubbing over the case of his camera. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he said.

“Yeah, me too,” Dawson agreed. “Can't believe this is finally it.” He nodded at the parachute bag strapped to Fitz's chest. “Need any help making sure your gear is set? Me and the boys were just double-checking everything.”

Looking down at his camera and loosening the screw to detach the flash bulb, Fitz shook his head. “No, I'm fine, thank you. John gave me a look over before I came out.”

Dawson nodded again, then looked over at something behind Fitz. Before he could turn around, a hand came down heavy on his shoulder, startling him; then Tibbet walked past, rifle slung over his shoulder as he headed for the plane.

“Always with the damn camera,” he said loudly. “Stop taking pictures of everything you see and get on the plane. We've got a date with Hitler.”

He climbed up into the plane's open door and Fitz looked back to Dawson, who was shaking his head and smiling. “He's ready to go, too,” he observed with a chuckle.

Fitz succeeded in getting the flash off of his camera and pulled the equipment bag on his back around to carefully stuff it in. “Maybe a little _too_ ready,” he said wryly.

-:-

Jemma knew something unusual was afoot from the moment she arrived at Bletchley for work on the morning of June 6th. It wasn’t that there seemed to be more people bustling between the buildings than normal; it was the manner in which they all had their heads ducked together, speaking quickly and quietly. Secrecy and discretion was the standard at the Park, but something about this felt off. There was a nervous sort of energy crackling in the air, and it immediately put her on edge.

When she walked into her Hut and found a few of her fellow translators along with the Hut head gathered around a small wireless, listening intently, her suspicions only grew. “What’s happened?” she asked warily.

“It’s begun.” Jones, the Hut head, looked up at her with excitement shining in his eyes. “The Allies are invading Normandy. It just started a few hours ago.”

“Oh.” Jemma swallowed, suddenly feeling a little faint. So Fitz _had_ been right, and now he was there, somewhere on the coast of France, possibly right in the thick of battle. The thought turned her blood cold. Then, suddenly, on the heels of her lightheadedness came a wave of nausea, so strong she almost retched. She had to lean against the wall for support as she bent at the waist, clutching at her stomach.

“Miss Simmons?” Now Jones was frowning at her in concern. “Are you alright?”

She breathed through her nose, willing the nausea to pass, and tried standing straight again. “Oh--I’m, I’m fine,” she managed. “It’s just--” She thought of Fitz again. “I know someone out there.”

Jones nodded slowly in understanding, and Humphreys, one of the other translators huddled at the radio, looked over in sympathy. “I’m sure he’s alright,” he said. “God’s on our side, and all.”

Jemma wasn’t very religious, but she would accept the sentiment if it meant keeping Fitz safe. She gave them a pale smile and walked to her desk, set on getting started on her day’s work in order to put the invasion and any thoughts of Fitz’s welfare from her mind. If she didn’t keep herself busy and her mind occupied, her thoughts were liable to spiral and that wouldn’t do her any good at all. As she sat down at her desk, Newton-John, the man at the desk next to hers, looked over at her in mild concern, but she just gave him a smile too before turning to the basket of decoded German messages on her desk waiting to be translated.

But the nausea lingered. It remained throughout the rest of the day, as she translated message after message from the German army detailing clashes with Allied troops, of successful counterattacks and damage taken followed by eventual retreats. It was strong enough to leave a bitter taste in her mouth, and left her able only to pick at her lunch in the cafeteria. She supposed it was because she had literally worried herself sick for Fitz, and that eventually it would pass. News would come down along the line that his battalion was intact and moving forward along the front, or she would see one of his stories published in the _Telegraph_ , or--best of all--she would receive a letter from him.

But none of those things ever happened.

The information on Allied troop movements that trickled down to her was never on specific battalions, or even regiments, if she heard anything at all. The men and women working for American intelligence at the Park, like Bobbi, were located in an entirely different Hut and she wasn’t privy to anything they learned, even though Bobbi was a friend. Jemma was used to not being able to discuss the particulars of their individual work with Bobbi, but the thought that the other woman might now know Fitz’s general location and couldn’t tell her smarted just a bit.

And there was nothing from the paper, either. Jemma had subscribed to the _Telegraph_ in anticipation of reading Fitz’s stories of the war, but none ever appeared. Instead, two days after D-Day, an article appeared by a man named James Smith, detailing the Allies’ efforts to take the French town of Carentan, accompanied by a photo of soldiers walking down a heavily-damaged street. It had deeply confused her; Fitz hadn’t mentioned another writer being sent along with him, but perhaps one had been added at the last minute and Fitz had been assigned to photography duties only. She’d studied the photograph, trying to take in as much detail from the fuzzy newsprint as she could, and imagined Fitz on the other side of the camera, walking with those soldiers amongst those shelled-out houses. It had settled an ache in her heart alongside the nausea that refused to fade.

It didn’t help matters that days passed without a letter in the post from him. Jemma tried not to put too much stock in it; after all, he was at war now and doubtlessly very busy, with much more pressing matters at hand than writing to her. But she couldn’t shake the worry from her mind, and the longer she went without hearing from him, the more it began to weigh on her and the worse her nausea grew, until it was a deeply uncomfortable sensation that troubled her at all hours of the day.

She took to drinking her tea with ginger to help alleviate the symptoms, and one night, as she stabbed listlessly at her dinner with her fork, considered that she had been feeling a little under the weather even before the invasion began. She was late for her monthly cycle, too, but she wrote that off as nothing to be concerned about. With the rigors and stress of her job, it wasn’t unusual for her or any of the other women to start their menses a little late. And things had been unbelievably hectic at Bletchley since D-Day, with everyone scrambling to keep up with the flood of new messages coming in and cracking the new Enigma code every morning. It wasn’t so unreasonable for her to be feeling off-color, what with the demands of her job; she was far from the only one going about looking tired and haggard with dark circles beneath their eyes.

But her poor health persisted, long past when she would have expected to adjust to the frenzied new schedule. Jemma found herself taking ginger in her tea at every meal and fighting off mild bouts of nausea at every hour in between. She was tired, more than she should have been for the adequate rest she was getting, and she felt sore all over. She would have suspected a bout of flu, but she had no fever or chills. It made her miserable, to the point that Bobbi and Alice noticed and asked after her, and even Newton-John at the Hut asked if she was unwell. She waved them all off, still certain it was nothing more than severe stress and concern. She could handle it. She had to, didn’t she? It was all part and parcel of doing her duty for the war effort.

In the meantime, she wrote to Fitz. Even if he was too preoccupied to write, perhaps he would like to get a letter from her. She told him how she’d heard about the news of the invasion and how he’d been on her mind ever since, and that she hoped he was safe. She told him she’d seen his photographs in the paper but not his articles, and asked if James Smith was a colleague of his. Lastly, she wrote that she would very much like to see him again when he came back home and was looking forward to it, whenever that day might come.   

One warm afternoon on one of her off days, Jemma was in the sitting room listening to the wireless with a book open in her lap when Bobbi came breezing in with a smile on her face. “I got a letter from Lance in the mail,” she said, holding up a small, white envelope. “First one in weeks. I’m so happy.”

Jemma watched as Bobbi sat down across from her and tore into the envelope, a plume of jealousy rising in her chest. How was it that Bobbi could be hearing from her husband when she’d yet to receive anything from Fitz? Then shame rapidly followed on the heels of her gut reaction. It wasn’t right of her to be envious of Bobbi. She was _married_ to Lance, and they’d been separated for years, while she and Fitz barely qualified as sweethearts. Bobbi had every right to be happy, and Jemma should support her.

“What does it say?” she asked, setting her book aside.

Bobbi’s eyes were scanning over the letter, her smile growing as she read the contents. “‘Made it to France,’ he says. ‘Germans are an absolute pain but we’re routing them. They didn’t expect us. Food is terrible and when we’re not fighting, France is bloody boring.’” She laughed. “That sounds like him. ‘Regiment is taking bets on when we’ll be done with the war. Some of the men are saying Christmas. I think next Easter is more likely. Can’t say much else. Hope to get some home leave soon.’” She sighed, then looked up. “I doubt he’ll get it any time soon, not with the Allies pushing forward. But it’s a nice thought.”

Jemma smiled sympathetically at her. “Don’t give up hope. I’m sure you’ll see him sooner than you think.” That was the hope, at least, for all of them: that their men could come home sooner rather than later.

Bobbi’s answering smile was a little wan, but still genuine. She folded her letter back up, then turned her attention to Jemma. “Have you heard from Fitz?”

“No.” Jemma glanced down and shook her head, feeling her ever-present well of worry deepen within her. She swallowed before looking back at her friend. “But surely there’s nothing to be concerned about, right? They’ve got so much on their minds, to say the least. They might not even have time to spare for letter writing.” There was still a small voice that insisted, however, that if Lance had found the time to write, then surely Fitz could have too.

“He’s probably very busy,” Bobbi agreed, trying to reassure her. “He’s got his stories to write for the paper, doesn’t he?”

Jemma shrugged. “I thought he did. But I’ve only seen articles from a man named James Smith. I wonder if they’ve moved Fitz to just the role of photographer. I would hate that for him; he was so looking forward to being able to write about the war.”

“Well, he’s still got a job to do.” Bobbi pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Just give it some time. I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon. He looked very sweet on you when he was leaving that morning.”

The reminder of Fitz’s smile that morning as he left, his touch and his kiss, put a soft smile on Jemma’s face. She had that to look forward to as well when he came back. She just had to be patient. War wasn’t easy, especially for the fighting men on the front lines. She, tucked safely away back home, had to maintain her courage so she could have some to give back when Fitz did eventually write to her.

-:-

When the first week of July came and went and Jemma realized she’d missed a second menstrual cycle, she grew a little concerned. She and Fitz had taken precautions the night they’d spent together, but she knew even that had a slight risk of failure, and her list of symptoms added up.

However, it was the absolute last thing she wanted to think about. The timing and circumstances were all wrong--they were at war, Fitz was far away, and they weren’t even engaged, much less married. How could she tell Fitz that she might be in trouble? How would he react? What would he say?

Would he even say anything at all?

It had been a little over a month since his last letter, and Jemma was beginning to seriously despair--at least, she did in the moments where she allowed herself to actually think about it. But she was determined not to dwell on that too much either, because facing the possibilities that lay behind Fitz’s silence were too heartbreaking to contemplate.

Fortunately, her never-ending work at Bletchley provided a suitable distraction. And if she worked herself ragged in an attempt to distance herself from the truth that lay at the back of her mind, well--she wasn’t the only person at the Park losing herself in her work.

-:-

Some things Jemma couldn’t ignore, though, no matter how hard she tried.

She’d developed some rather alarming cravings for the worst types of foods that was proving very troublesome, for one. She would be elbows-deep into a stack of translations when she would acquire the sudden urge to eat an entire treacle tart, or it would be late at night and she’d suddenly wish for nothing more than a plate of chocolate digestives and a glass of milk. The problem with wanting sweets all the time, of course, was that they were hard to come by on the ration and most of their sugar allotment for the household went toward cooking for everyone. One night, Alice had made a sweet pudding in the steamer to go with dinner and Jemma had watched longingly as small slices had been doled out amongst the three of them present at the table, with leftovers to be saved for the following night.

Another night found her at a particularly low point. Work had been extra hectic that day and she was tired, sore, and deeply sad that there was still no word from Fitz. Her housemate Hannah, coming off second shift, came upon her in the kitchen with a loaf of bread, a knife, and their treasured jar of marmalade, near tears.

“Jemma!” she cried out in surprise. “What are you doing?!”

She set her half-eaten piece of bread down on the table and tried not to let her tears spill over. “Oh, I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I’m just--I--I feel so rotten--and all I could think about was this marmalade.” She prodded at the jar and sniffed. “It’s _lemon_ marmalade. Isn’t that the best flavor?”

“I usually prefer orange,” Hannah said carefully, watching her. “But--you know we’ve got to use that sparingly, don’t you?” Seeing Jemma’s face crumple, she hurried to add, “And this isn’t like you. Are you alright?”

_I think I might be pregnant_ , she wanted to say, but the words lodged in her throat. It was all stress, she told herself. Just stress and nerves from being overworked and concerned about the man who was her boyfriend, yet not at the same time.

“I’m fine,” Jemma sighed wetly at length, and pushed the marmalade jar away from her. “I’m just… very tired, that’s all. I haven’t been feeling well.”

“I’ve noticed,” Hannah said. “I know the work is hard and we’re all focused on doing our part, but don’t drive yourself into a breakdown. You won’t be doing anyone any favors, least of all yourself.”

“I know.” Jemma swallowed back another wave of tears and gestured at the bread left on the table. “I’ll just finish this piece and try to get some sleep.”

Hannah smiled at her, nodding, and moved past her to go to the icebox and pull out some leftovers for her dinner. Jemma sighed again and picked up the rest of her bread to eat. She really needed to try and do better.

-:-

It wasn’t just odd food cravings that were pestering her. Her clothes didn’t fit as well as they used to; her dresses had gone a bit tight in the middle and her jumpers were snug across the chest. It was highly unusual because, under the restricted diet everyone was on due to food rationing, she certainly shouldn’t be _gaining_ weight. If anything, she’d actually slimmed down a bit under the rationing program.

Well--the small weight gain was only unusual if she ignored the glaringly obvious, which she stubbornly was. It was just too much to fathom without having had any word from Fitz. As silly as it might have been, Jemma felt like she needed a sign from him, a letter, a telegram, anything at all saying he was alive and safe before she could face the facts laid out in front of her. But nothing ever came for her in the post, and the _Telegraph_ remained frustratingly void of any articles from him, only running stories from the mysterious James Smith.

Her denial lasted clear through the summer even as her worry over Fitz grew, until a grey, drizzly day the first week of September. She was at her desk in her Hut, absorbed in translating messages regarding German troop movements in Holland, when she felt a sudden strange fluttering sensation in her stomach.

It startled her so much that she gasped, dropping her pen with a clatter. At the next desk over, Newton-John stopped what he was doing and looked at her curiously. “Everything alright?” he asked quietly, so as not to disturb the other translators working around them.

Trying not to panic, Jemma inhaled slowly through her nose and nodded, smiling weakly. “Yes, just--” She held up her hand. “Got a cramp in my hand.”

Newton-John frowned, but nodded and went back to his work. His attention occupied elsewhere, Jemma placed a light hand on her stomach while she picked her pen back up with the other. A moment later, she felt it again: a curious, brief sort of tickle, like the effervescent bubbles of the Coca-Cola Fitz had bought her from the soda fountain at Rainbow Corner. It wasn’t indigestion, and it wasn’t her breakfast settling. It was something very, very different. And once she realized what it might be, she knew could no longer hide from the truth.

The continuing nausea, the food cravings, the crying and the weight gain and the ill-fitting clothes, and now this, what felt like movement in her stomach… it all added up to one unavoidable conclusion: she was most definitely pregnant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to check out the chapter art on my Tumblr (eclecticmuses)!


	3. Chapter 3

On her next day off from work, Jemma went to visit a doctor in Bletchley and have her suspicions confirmed. The doctor she saw was a middle-aged man with greying hair at his temples and a brisk bedside manner. He performed a simple abdominal and pelvic exam and quickly confirmed that she was indeed pregnant, then asked if she had an idea of the date of conception, to gauge how far along she was. She was meekly able to give him an exact date of April 29th. When he realized that put her at just over four months, nearly halfway through her pregnancy, he chastised her for waiting so long to see a doctor, explaining that she needed the extra rations afforded to expectant mothers in order to be assured the delivery of a healthy baby.

Jemma quietly accepted the doctor’s admonishment, knowing it was her own stubbornness and desire to hide from her problems that had kept her away for so long. As he went on to detail the schedule of visits to either him or a midwife for the rest of her pregnancy, she noticed that he glanced down at her left hand, obviously looking for any sign of a wedding ring.

“Is the father serving overseas?” he asked as he filled out some paperwork for her.

She pressed her lips together, and looked down at her hands, which were folded in her lap. “Ah… yes. He--he’s a war correspondent.”

“I see.” The doctor finished writing with a flourish and held the sheaf of papers out to her. “Here’s your medical certificate that you’ll need to take to the Food Office in order to receive your extra ration book. I’ve also included a list of dates for when you’ll need to come back in for checkups, and the location of an antenatal clinic here in town where you can find additional resources to help you prepare.”

He did not, Jemma noted dimly as she left the practice a short time later, congratulate her on her impending motherhood.

She went home in a fog, her thoughts tumbling over and over: how her life had just irrevocably changed, all of the things she needed to do and sort out, and where she would go from here. As an unwed expectant mother, her options were extremely limited.

She _really_ needed to get in touch with Fitz.

Her mind was still racing when she walked in the front door of her house and past the entrance to the sitting room, only to do a double-take when she saw Bobbi sitting by the fireplace, working on some mending. Bobbi looked up and saw her lingering in the doorway and smiled. “Hi,” she said in greeting. “Did you go out to the shops this morning?”

Jemma bit her lip and looked down, fighting the urge to wring her hands. Then, making a decision, she took a deep breath and entered the room. Bobbi was a stalwart friend and could be trusted not to judge her harshly; Jemma knew that she didn’t want to face this new life change alone, and having someone close at hand on the home front for support could only be a good thing. “I… I didn’t go by the shops,” she said hesitantly, coming to a stop just in front of her. “I went to see a doctor.”

Bobbi frowned up at her and immediately set her mending aside. “Is everything okay?”

Inhaling, Jemma replied, “Well--I’m not sure. You see, I’m…” It took her a brief pause to get the words past her lips, and when she spoke, her voice was hushed. “I’m pregnant.”

Bobbi’s jaw dropped. “Jemma!” she gasped, and quickly stood from her chair. “Oh god… is it… it’s Fitz’s, right? Fitz is the father?”

Jemma nodded, not even able to summon up any offense at her friend thinking she could have possibly been with anyone else since she’d met Fitz. “Yes. It’s his.”

“But that was _months_ ago!” Bobbi cried. “How far along are you?”

“Seventeen weeks,” Jemma replied, hanging her head.

As expected, Bobbi tutted softly. “Oh, Jemma. I guess arranging a three-day weekend for you is out of the question, then, if you wanted one.”

Jemma’s eyes widened. “Bobbi!” she hissed in shock. “Even if that was still a viable option, it’s extremely risky, and more than that, _illegal_.” She clutched her certificates tighter in her hand. “Besides, I couldn’t do anything without letting Fitz know first.”

Bobbi’s expression turned sympathetic. “But you still haven’t heard from him, have you?”

The sadness in her friend’s eyes burned her, and Jemma had to look away, placing her free hand on her stomach without meaning to. “No.” The mention of Fitz and the mystery of why he wasn’t writing back to her made a lump rise in her throat, and she had to blink against the threat of tears. “Not since he left for France. I’ve written to him a few times, but nothing has come in return. I’m…” She swallowed thickly. “I’m afraid of what it might mean. But he _has_ to know about this. I’ll have to try writing again.”

Bobbi nodded in understanding. “What are you going to do? Are you going to tell your Hut head?”

“Jones?” Jemma shook her head quickly. “No. No, I don’t want anyone to know.”

“But soon you’ll start to show and--”

“I know, I know.” She sighed. “But I want to keep this quiet for as long as I can. My work at the Park is too important, and… I don’t want to go home to my parents.” She closed her eyes and exhaled again. “I can’t even imagine how they’ll react to this.”

She opened her eyes again when she felt Bobbi pull her into a hug. “Everything will be okay,” she said, giving Jemma a gentle squeeze. “Fitz is just tied up with his work for the paper. If you write to him about this, he’ll _have_ to respond.” She let go and took a step back, holding Jemma at arm’s length. “And in the meantime, I’ll be here to help you. You won’t be alone.”

“Thank you so much,” Jemma said, feeling tearful again. “Truly. I feel so overwhelmed right now, I hardly know where to start.”

“I can think of one place.” Bobbi smiled, putting on her best get-down-to-business face for her benefit. “Did the doctor give you your medical certificate so you can get your extra rations?”

Jemma nodded. “Yes--here.” She held them up in her hand. “Along with some instructions for return visits and directions to an antenatal clinic.”

“Excellent. Then that’s where we’ll start,” Bobbi replied. “First we’ll take you by the Food Office to get your ration book, and then we’ll go by the antenatal clinic and see what they have for you. And then we’ll go from there.”

With a plan set in place and Bobbi’s calm, reassuring presence beside her, Jemma felt the knot of panic squeezing her chest loosen just a little. Perhaps things weren’t as dire as they seemed at the moment.

-:-        

That night, after all of their errands were done, Jemma stood in front of the mirror on the inside of her wardrobe door in just her bra and knickers, examining the shape of her body. Now that she was allowing herself to acknowledge her pregnancy fully, she could see a definite slight swell to her stomach, the curve that was only just beginning to hint at the life carried within. She couldn’t believed she’d denied it to herself for so long, but now that the truth was there to stay, she couldn’t bring herself to feel much more than a vague sense of dread, even despite Bobbi’s reassurances.

She hadn’t planned for any of this. Children had never been included in her visions of the future, at least not her near future, because she’d never met a man with whom she could see herself settling down. And even though she liked Fitz very much, their relationship was so new and fragile that the idea of a family with him had never crossed her mind. But now she was pregnant with his child and they weren’t engaged--much less married--and he had no formal obligation to her. What would he do when he learned she was expecting a baby?

That was assuming anything happened at all. She’d had no word from him in months and now held very little hope of hearing from him ever again. She didn’t know what had happened--if he had been injured, or worse, killed, or perhaps the most heartbreaking possibility: that he’d simply lost interest in her, or met another woman and cast her aside.

Jemma didn’t want to believe the latter, because Fitz hadn’t come across as being that type of man, and he’d very deliberately given her his Army address so she could continue writing to him. But with absolutely no clue as to what had happened to him, her mind had begun to churn out worst-case scenarios to torture herself with. She couldn’t decide if Fitz dying or being dropped in favor of someone else when she was pregnant with his child was worse.

She sighed, running a light hand over her stomach, and closed the wardrobe door before going to the bed to take off her bra and replace it with her nightdress. As she did, she saw the neatly-folded sheet of paper she’d left sitting on her vanity, waiting to be taken to the post office in the morning. She’d written another letter to Fitz, to tell him the news that she was expecting and that she hoped he was safe and to please write back as soon as he could. She’d penned the letter with her heart in her throat, imagining every possible reaction Fitz might have, both the good and the bad; she even imagined her letter never reaching him at all, for one reason or another, leaving her completely alone.

That was what frightened her the most about it all: bringing a baby into the world alone. She dreaded what her parents might do or say when they discovered she was pregnant out of wedlock; and if something had happened to Fitz or he wanted nothing more to do with her and their child, her options were bleak. She would make do somehow, because she had no other choice, but it wouldn’t be easy.

Her nightdress on, Jemma gave the letter one last look before switching off her lamp and crawling into bed. She wanted to hold onto the hope that Fitz was safe and had a perfectly good reason for not writing to her, and that this would finally spur a response, but those hopes were slim now. But all she could do was send out this new letter and continue to wait for a sign that he was alive.

-:-

Late the next afternoon, when Jemma arrived back home after her shift at the Park, she heard Alice call out to her from the sitting room as she headed up the stairs.

“Jemma!” she said, and Jemma paused on the stairs to look down at her through the open doorway. “You got something in the post today.”

“Oh?” Jemma’s heart leapt, but she tried not to get her hopes up too much as she turned and came back down the steps. It could just be a letter from her parents; they exchanged letters frequently, after all.

Alice stood from her seat by the wireless and picked something up off the mantel before coming to meet her at the door. “Yes, it’s… a parcel, of sorts,” she said, with a strange look on her face. “Here.” She held the post out to her, which turned out to be a small bundle of envelopes held together with twine. Jemma took it, curious, but when she realized what it was the color drained from her face.

It was all of the letters she’d written to Fitz since he’d left for France. As she turned them over in her hands, she saw that they were unopened, and there was a large stamp on the top envelope that read ‘UNDELIVERABLE’.

“Aren’t those the letters you wrote to your sweetheart?” Alice asked hesitantly as Jemma looked down at them, numb. “What does this mean?”

“I don’t know.” Her words felt like ash on her tongue. After a pause, she gave Alice a bracing smile that felt more like a grimace, awkward and false. “Thank you, for these. I’ll just… take them upstairs.” She turned and went back up the steps, clutching her letters tightly in her hands until she could reach the safety and privacy of her room.

Once the door was shut behind her, she sank down on the edge of her bed and undid the twine, spreading the envelopes across her lap and looking at each of them in turn. All of them had been stamped, it looked like, and the flaps were untampered with. The lone conclusion Jemma could draw was that they had never reached Fitz, but why would that be?

The only rational explanation she could come up with was that Fitz was no longer with the Army, and they were no longer accepting post on his behalf. And the only reason why he would have disappeared so suddenly without telling her would be if…

Her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. She’d been avoiding thinking of this possibility as much as she could because she couldn’t bear to face it, but with hard proof in front of her eyes, there was no further way to deny it. Fitz was gone. He had to be. Why else would they have returned her letters to her, unopened, saying they couldn’t be delivered?

It was the only interpretation Jemma could see of the evidence available to her. Fitz had died weeks ago in France, and she wouldn’t have received an official telegram from the War Office because she wasn’t his family. If it weren’t for these letters, she might never have known anything at all regarding what happened to him. As the realization of his fate fully sank in, the tears spilled over and she pressed a hand to her mouth to try and stifle a sob.

It was such a horrible loss, a waste of a good man. He’d been so young. So smart and sweet, and eager to get out and make a difference in the world. And here she was, pregnant with his child and he was _gone_ and he’d never known about it, hadn’t known he was going to be a father. The thought of what they could have been together if they’d only had time flashed through her mind, making the tears come faster: a dinner date they would never get to take, glances and smiles and kisses never exchanged, love never given time to bloom properly, all dashed away by the destruction of war. And now their child was fatherless before it was even born. It was too much. Jemma broke down into sobs, overwhelmed by Fitz’s death and her resulting broken heart, and the lonely road that now lay ahead of her with their child.

That was how Bobbi found her some time later, curled up on her side on her bed, still wearing her coat and clutching her unopened letters in her hands. “Jemma?” she said, carefully opening the door and peeking her head around it. Her expression was worried. “Alice said you got some letters back in the mail and we could hear you crying… what’s happened?”

Jemma wiped at her tear-streaked face with one hand and tried to recapture some modicum of composure, but it was no use. She was a wreck and there was no hiding it. “He’s gone,” she cried miserably. “Fitz is gone.”

Bobbi’s face fell. “Oh, Jemma,” she said, her voice heavy with sympathy, and came fully inside the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. She walked over to the bed and sat down next to where Jemma was huddled on the mattress. Resting a light hand on her side, she asked carefully, “Did they send an official notice, too?”

Jemma shook her head. “They wouldn’t have sent me a telegram, would they?” she replied, sniffling. “I’m not a relative or--” She choked on another sob, her hand falling to cover her stomach. “Or his wife.”

Simply nodding, her face grave, Bobbi started rubbing soothing circles into her back.

“And I’ll never know what really happened to him,” Jemma continued, more tears rolling down her cheeks. “I don’t know anything about his family, just that it was him and his mum. I don’t know her name or where she lives. I’ve just got these letters returned to me, and that’s it.” Bobbi took the letters from her hand and looked at them briefly before setting them aside. Jemma looked up at her with wide eyes. “And the baby--the baby’s already lost its father. Bobbi, I don’t know what to do now. I can’t go back to my parents, they’ll be…” A fresh wave of tears brimmed in her eyes. “They’ll be so disappointed in me.”

Bobbi kept up the motions of her hand, trying to bring Jemma even a small bit of comfort. “I know you’re afraid,” she said quietly. “And I can’t even begin to guess what the future will look like for you. Or any of us. But I told you I’d be here to support you through this, didn’t I?” Jemma nodded tearfully, and Bobbi smiled and gently brushed a wayward strand of hair away from her face like a mother would. “So you’ve got me, at least. We’ll figure something out.” She paused for a moment and then, clearly trying to be upbeat, added, “And you can tell your baby all about her father when she’s older.”

Jemma blinked up at her. “Her?”

Bobbi’s smile widened. “It’s a girl, I can feel it.”

“You can’t possibly know that,” Jemma protested, feeling more like herself for the briefest moment, before reality came crashing back in and a new bout of tears threatened. “All I have left of Fitz is just a few letters. I don’t even have a picture.”

“But you have your memory, and that’s as sharp as a tack,” Bobbi said, still trying to find the positive. “It’s not… ideal, and I wish I could change everything about this for you. So much. But you do have your memories of him, and that’s not something anyone can take away.” When Jemma nodded again, looking very forlorn and small on her bed, Bobbi went on. “Come on, why don’t we get your face washed. Hannah’s almost done with dinner, and we can get you something to eat.”

Jemma sighed, trying not to let more tears well over. “Oh, I’m not feeling very hungry right now.”

“If you can’t eat for yourself, at least try and eat for the baby,” Bobbi suggested kindly. “You’ll need to keep your strength up.”

It was hard to summon up any energy toward her well-being at the moment, but Jemma knew that Bobbi was right. “I’ll be down in a few minutes,” she said, still feeling like she needed a bit of time to herself.

“Alright,” Bobbi said softly, patting her back as she prepared to stand up. “And for what it’s worth… I really am sorry.”

Jemma watched her go, leaving the door slightly ajar, and sighed again before burrowing deeper into her pillow. She felt so hopeless and heartbroken, despite Bobbi’s reassurances. Her future stretched out before her, now bleak and grey. She would never see Fitz again, and she would have to raise their child alone. What good could she ever possibly find in that?

-:-

In the end, Jemma forced herself to go on, because she had no other choice. The world wasn’t going to stop moving for her just because she was grieving, just because she felt lost and adrift. She was far from the only woman to be widowed by the war and, as she constantly reminded herself, she couldn’t even fully lay claim to that. She and Fitz had barely begun when he’d died; she just so happened to be carrying a permanent reminder of their short-lived relationship.

She knew she wouldn’t be able to keep her pregnancy a secret forever, but she was determined to keep living as she had for as long as she could. To that end, she kept going to work at the Park and spent long, grueling hours translating messages the cryptanalysts had decoded from the German army. Every one that came across her desk left her wondering: was this the unit that was responsible for Fitz’s death? It left a sour taste in her mouth, and an even stronger drive to complete her tasks with the highest degree of efficiency and accuracy, all in the hope that she could contribute her part to the war effort and help the Allies succeed in defeating the Nazis. Maybe then she would be able to find some measure of peace, knowing that the men who had killed Fitz had been stopped.

In the small amount of free time she had, Jemma visited the antenatal clinic in Bletchley to do what she could to prepare for the baby. There she received flyers and pamphlets on what to expect after delivery, how to use her extra allotted rations properly, and how to make baby clothes that would make the best use of her limited fabric ration. When she was able to, she attended classes there with other expectant mothers, and she couldn’t help but be a little envious of the wedding bands she saw shining on all of the other women’s fingers. But only a little. Doubtlessly many of their husbands were off at war, and she knew all too well the worry that came with that. But at least they didn’t have to face the judgment that she did--the looks she received when they realized she _didn’t_ have a ring, that she was unwedt; the midwife’s brusqueness with her and none of the other new mothers. She knew what they thought of her: immoral, cheap, fast, and loose. It made her want to scream with frustration.

 _That wasn’t it at all_ , she wanted to say. _We were careful, we tried. And he really cared about me. I could have loved him, if we’d only had more time. We could have been a proper family._   

But it was no use; Fitz was never coming back, and no amount of explaining would change the social mores that had been ingrained into everyone around her.

Jemma kept to herself whenever she had to go into town, and when she was at home, she spent her precious downtime there getting ready for the baby, too. With Bobbi’s help, she started sewing the baby clothes that she’d been given instructions for, and made a few dresses for herself to accommodate her growing stomach.

Her pregnancy was the worst-kept secret in their house. She hadn’t explicitly told her other housemates about it, but they sussed it out soon enough, either through her extra rations or her expanding waistline. She couldn’t have hoped to hide it from them, but she was very relieved when they didn’t treat her badly for it; instead, they did little things here and there to help her along. Alice knitted a tiny hat and a pair of socks, and Hannah produced a lovely soft woolen blanket, knowing the baby would be born during the winter months. Jemma could barely voice her gratitude, but she accepted it all with as much grace as she could, thankful beyond words for their support when others were treating her poorly.

Bobbi kept encouraging her to tell her parents, but Jemma couldn’t bring herself to do it. She was deeply afraid of how they would react to learning that their daughter was pregnant without being married. Her father, she thought, might grudgingly accept it; he had always been partial to her, doting on her when she was young and encouraging her passions. She was mostly afraid of her mum. Her mother was something of a social maven, a woman who enjoyed moving in the circles her husband’s profession afforded her. She had been a kind mother to Jemma growing up and full of love for her, but an unexpected pregnancy was something Jemma could see throwing a wrench into her mother’s carefully cultivated image. And while she wasn’t ashamed of Fitz or the night she had spent with him, she didn’t want to do anything to upset or disappoint her parents. This certainly would.

“But they’re your parents,” Bobbi insisted one day. “I’m sure once they get past the surprise they’ll still love you and support you. You’re their daughter. It’s not like you’ve gone out and committed treason.”

Jemma sighed. “You’ve never met them,” she said uneasily. “My mum has always been so concerned with what other people think. If I come home pregnant, she’ll likely shut me away in my room and not let me out until it’s time for the baby to be born.”

Bobbi frowned at her. “That’s a bit harsh. Surely she’d be excited at the idea of having a granddaughter.”

Bobbi was still caught on the idea of her having a girl, which made Jemma smile faintly. “Not if I don’t have a respectable husband to back me up,” she replied. “If I tell her the truth--that I only had one night with him--oh, I’ll never hear the end of it.” She sighed, sinking down miserably in her chair. “We could have had so much more.”

Sensing that she was about to spiral into another haze of despair, Bobbi reached out to squeeze her arm. “Come on, now. Think of everything great you’re going to do once the baby is here.” She smiled gently. “I still think you should tell your parents. The longer you wait, the bigger a shock it’s going to be. And you can’t put it off forever. How are you going to support the baby once she’s born?”

Bobbi was right, and it was something Jemma didn’t want to think about, but she needed to. She couldn’t support her child on her own, because she couldn’t afford to hire someone to watch the baby while she worked--and she highly doubted she would be allowed to work once she had given birth. Mothers were meant to stay in the home; it was just how things were done.

That was made extremely clear to her around mid-October, when she was a little over five months along and having more and more trouble hiding her growing belly behind cardigans and coats. One morning shortly after she’d come in to work at the Park, Jones, her Hut leader, took her aside for a private discussion.

“It’s been brought to my attention that you’re, ah, in the family way,” he said, looking distinctly uncomfortable and like it was taking every ounce of his willpower not to look at her stomach. “There’s been talk… and I really have no choice but to speak to you on the matter.”

Bristling, Jemma unconsciously laid a hand on her stomach. Jones was close enough that he could see for himself that she was pregnant, but was being too precious to actually look. “I _am_ pregnant,” she said archly.

“Right.” Jones swallowed. “Well, you should know that the School isn’t in the habit of employing expectant mothers due to the stress placed upon staff here. It would upset the delicateness of the condition, and the distractions would be too much--”

“Rubbish,” Jemma cut in angrily. Jones stopped mid-sentence and blinked owlishly at her. “I’m pregnant, not an invalid,” she snapped. “I’m five months in and I’ve been doing my job just as well as I ever have the whole time. Haven’t I?” When Jones didn’t reply, she repeated, “Haven’t I? My work hasn’t suffered a bit. I’m still putting through more translations in a day than anyone else in the Hut.”

Jones slowly nodded.

“And anyway, I’m safer here in Bletchley than I would be in London, right? They’re still bombing the city with those awful rockets.” Jemma shook her head. “No, it’s better for me to stay here until it’s time for the baby to come.” Her tone turned pleading. “Please, let me stay on until then. I’m the best translator you’ve got. Our work is important, and you can’t afford to lose me.”

Jones sighed, looking weary. “I’d much rather keep you on for a little while longer than lose you, personally,” he said. “But I’m not sure my superiors will care for it.”

“They don’t have to like it,” Jemma replied, drawing her shoulders back. “Just show them my numbers and my record and let them speak for themselves.”

Sighing again, Jones just shook his head. “I’ll see what I can do.” Then he waved his hand. “You’re free to go.”

Newton-John was watching her as she came back to her desk, but she pointedly avoided looking at him as she sat down and got to work. She couldn’t help but wonder if he was one of the people who had been talking about her behind her back, and it hurt to know that a man she’d always gotten on well with would potentially be suggesting she be sacked.

But it was something she grew used to as the weeks wore on and autumn changed to winter. Jemma knew her coworkers were talking about her, because conversations would suddenly stop when she entered a room, then resume in hushed whispers. The Wrens would stare at her when she went to eat lunch in the cafeteria. She knew they were all talking about the fact that she was pregnant while unmarried, drumming up lurid theories for how she, a nice and straight-laced girl, ended up that way. She’d been the center of gossip before, but it had always been for her high marks in school or her skill at her job. It had never been for perceived moral failings. The stigma burned her, but she refused to be ashamed of Fitz. He hadn’t been a dalliance. He would have loved their child, she was sure of it.

She hadn’t wanted to draw any attention to her pregnancy, but she found herself unconsciously pressing a hand to her stomach whenever she went out, as if she could physically shield her baby from the stares and judgment of other people. Whenever she caught herself doing it she was quick to drop her hand and straighten her coat, but her hand always gravitated back. She couldn’t protect herself from what others thought, but maybe, just maybe, some mercy could be shown to her child.

Sometimes, on evenings when she wasn’t doing much, or sewing clothes grew tedious, Jemma found her mind drifting to Fitz’s family. She wished she had some way of contacting his mother--she may have lost a son, but she still had a grandchild on the way. It was a piece of Fitz left behind that Jemma could give, that could possibly offer a grieving mother a small bit of relief. But, Jemma thought ruefully, considering how other people had been treating her, Fitz’s mother might not want anything to do with a bastard child.

That thought left her even sadder and more desolate than almost anything else: that her child had more family out there, somewhere, that they would probably never know, a whole swath of their heritage lost to them. She would do her best to tell them everything she knew about their father, everything she could find out, but she’d already resigned herself to the knowledge that she wouldn’t have much to give.

When the weather turned bitterly cold and the holidays approached, Jemma finally admitted to herself that it was probably time to give up the game and leave Bletchley. She and Bobbi had gone to one of the Christmas parties thrown to improve morale amongst the staff, and she felt as though she was sticking out like a sore thumb, what with her full stomach and all.

“Everyone’s staring at me,” she mumbled, clutching her glass of hot cider close.

“Oh, they are not,” Bobbi replied easily, taking a sip of her wine. “I think you’re worrying too much.”

Jemma shook her head, her hand going self-consciously to her stomach like it always did. Now in her third trimester, there was no sense in even bothering to try and hide it, and the swell of her belly was highly visible in the modest maternity dress Bobbi had helped her make. “Well, if they aren’t now, they were before,” she said. “And now they’re just talking about me. About how I’m some cheap floozy who’s getting her just punishment for sleeping around.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve heard them. I can’t believe some people…”

“Let them talk,” Bobbi said, a bit more harshly than Jemma expected. Then she took another gulp of her wine and softened a bit. “All I’m saying is, the only person whose opinion matters on all of this is you. What you think of your baby and how you feel about her.”

She was never going to be able to convince her friend she wasn’t having a girl, and it brought a small smile to her face, especially when she felt the baby kick, almost as if in response to Bobbi’s words. “You’re right,” she murmured, rubbing her hand gently over her stomach. “I _am_ looking forward to it.”

And she really was. In the moments where fear of the unknown and the overwhelming feeling of being alone didn’t threaten to crush her, Jemma was looking forward to meeting her baby. She’d never planned to be a mum, but she wanted to meet the person she and Fitz had created together, and wanted to care for and nurture the one piece of him she had left. It was the least she could do.

“That’s what I thought.” Smiling now, Bobbi nudged her with her elbow. “Would you like to hear some _real_ gossip?” At Jemma’s nod, she continued, “See Roger over there? Talking to Paul? I have it on good authority that he’s been seeing Helen from Hut 6.”

Jemma’s jaw dropped. “No!” she gasped. “But he’s married, isn’t he?”

Bobbi nodded, smirking. “Yes, he is. Want to know how I found out? So, you know that Alice works with the Colossus computer…”

-:-

Two days after the Christmas party, Jemma quietly turned in her resignation to Jones. He accepted it without any undue comments; he simply thanked her for her service and said the Hut wouldn’t be the same without her. She smiled her thanks and headed out to her desk to straighten it up and make sure it was neat for the next inevitable occupant. Newton-John set down his pen and watched her for a moment.

“So you’re leaving?” he asked.

Jemma nodded, lining up a pen next to the small stack of notecards she’d used to write translations on.

“Well… good luck to you,” he said. “It won’t be the same without you here.”

She laughed softly. “That’s what Jones said.”

Newton-John smiled back at her. “He’s right. And, um… congratulations on--uh--” He nodded at her stomach. “That.”

A small, amused smile spread over her face, and Jemma nodded at him. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Really.”

He nodded in return, and turned back to his work as Jemma finished up and left Hut 3, and Bletchley Park, for the final time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to check out the associated artwork on my art tag (#eclecticart) on my Tumblr (eclecticmuses)!


	4. Chapter 4

The thing about resigning from Bletchley Park was that now, Jemma had no excuse not to tell her parents that she was pregnant. She kept in regular contact with them, through letters and the occasional phone call, but she had always been very careful to leave any hint of her condition out of the conversation. But with no job to support herself, no husband, and less than two months left of her pregnancy, she had no choice but to ask her parents if she could come back home--which meant it was time for a potentially very uncomfortable talk.

She’d considered writing a letter, but the subject of her pregnancy felt a little too personal and intimate for a letter or even a telegram. It might even anger her parents further if she told them that way, so callously and so blasé with ink and paper. No, a phone call would be best. It wasn’t Jemma’s preferred mode of communication, but at least that way, it would be over and done with rather quickly.

Making a phone call necessitated a trip to the post office, located on the Queensway just a short distance from her home, a tree-lined street that was one of the main thoroughfares through town. Jemma kept her coat buttoned closed against the cold December air as she walked down the pavement, smiling politely at anyone she happened to pass. One of the good things about Bletchley was that it was a large enough town for her to remain just another face; outside of the Park and the antenatal clinic, no one knew who she was, or that she was pregnant out of wedlock. No one judged her. She was just another rosy-cheeked expectant mother, going about her business in town.

When she reached the post office, no one was inside except for the postmistress behind the front counter, who was reading a magazine and looked quite bored. Jemma nodded once in greeting and squeezed herself into the tiny phone booth, hoping it would provide her with a scrap of privacy. Then she slipped a few coins into the slot on the telephone and dialed her parents’ number.

The Simmonses were well off enough to be able to afford their own phone, which was somewhat of a rarity, but Jemma was grateful for it now; it meant she didn’t have to wait as long for the telephone operators to make the connections to put her in touch with her mother. And her mum was almost always home, so she was reasonably sure she would be there to pick up. After listening to a few of the operators speak, Jemma finally heard the telephone ring, and then the sound of her mother’s voice: “Hello?”

“Hi, Mum,” she said, her nerves churning. “It’s Jemma.”

“Jemma?” her mother exclaimed, sounding surprised. “Darling, is everything alright? We’ve just had a letter from you, has something happened that you felt the need to make a call?”

Jemma chewed on her lip. “I’m fine, Mum. Just--” She decided to try and press her luck. “I wanted to let you know that I’m coming home tomorrow. To stay.”

“To stay?” her mother echoed, sounding confused. “Whatever for? Has your job let you go? What nonsense, I should have your father--”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Jemma cut in. “It’s--” She glanced out of the phone booth, to where the postmistress was sitting not too far away. Briefly closing her eyes, she shored up her courage to say what had to be said, and lowered her voice. “I’m pregnant.”

She could hear her mother’s sharp intake of breath even over the phone. “Sorry?” she gasped.

“I’m pregnant,” Jemma repeated softly.

“What?” her mother cried. “Pregnant?! I… I’m in _shock_ , Jemma, I never thought that you would turn out like… how… oh, I don’t know what to say. Your father and I raised you to be better than this. I’m _appalled_. At least tell me that the boy responsible has proposed to you.”

Jemma had sat in hollow resignation during her mother’s diatribe, not having expected much better, but at that last, she felt a deep pang of grief. “He’s dead, Mum,” she said quietly. “He was killed in France.”

“Oh.” That brought her mother up short, though her voice did soften a little. “I’m… terribly sorry to hear that. The war has taken so much from everyone.” She sighed. “When is the baby due? How far along are you?”

Glancing out the phone booth door again, Jemma saw that the postmistress was now doing a poor job of hiding that she was eavesdropping. Fighting the urge to try and make herself as small as possible in the booth, she pressed her fingers to her forehead and replied, “Eight months.”

“Jemma!” her mother cried again, going straight back to dismayed shock just as Jemma knew she would. “Eight months? You’ve been writing us all this time and you’ve never said a word! How could you keep this from us? The baby is coming in a month… Jemma Anne, I am beyond words. You’ve never acted like this before. What’s gotten into you? Have you at least been to see a doctor?”

She’d been sinking in her seat more and more at her mother’s reproach, but finally Jemma bristled a bit. “Of course I’ve seen a doctor, Mum, I’m not daft,” she bit out. “I’ve been taking care of myself.”

Mrs. Simmons made an aggrieved noise. “Oh, your father is going to be beside himself,” she fretted. “What time are you arriving?” 

“I’m taking the 8 a.m. train, coming in to Euston,” Jemma replied, feeling her heart sink at the mention of her father.

“We’ll be there to meet you,” her mother said. “And now I think our time is almost up, so we’ll see you in the morning?”

Jemma nodded, even though her mother couldn’t see her. “Yes, in the morning. Goodbye, Mum.”

“Goodbye, darling.”

The click on the other end signaled that her mother had hung up, and Jemma put the phone receiver back into its cradle with a sigh. The conversation hadn’t gone any better than she’d expected it to, but it certainly could have gone a lot worse. She supposed she should just be grateful her mother hadn’t disowned her on the spot. Not that she realistically thought she would, but the fear had been there, lurking in the back of her mind like a phantom. She was thankful, but she’d still yet to face her parents in person. Time would tell just how badly they would react to seeing her in person.

Standing, Jemma pushed her way out of the phone booth, only to find the postmistress staring at her. Jemma found herself suddenly paranoid that the other woman had heard enough of her side of the conversation to divine her situation and pass judgment just as everyone else had. At this point, it just made Jemma tired. All she wanted was for her pregnancy to be over so she could hold her baby in her arms and focus on caring for it, instead of feeling the weight of her perceived sins crushing her down into the earth.

Staring the postmistress right back in the eye, she stood as straight as she could and rebuttoned her coat over her swollen stomach before striding out the door.

-:-   

That night, Jemma packed up all of her belongings and said her goodbyes to Alice and Hannah; the next morning, she walked to the train station. Bobbi came with her, insisting on carrying one of her two suitcases so she wouldn’t have to struggle with both of them. They didn’t talk much as they walked, finding words mostly unnecessary; after all, a friendship like theirs, that had been forged in the fires of wartime, couldn’t be summed up in a chat or a stroll. Besides, it wasn’t the end; they still had letters, and Bobbi had promised to visit after the baby was born.

The station platform was almost deserted when they arrived, and Jemma gave Bobbi a bracing look. “Well, this is it,” she said wryly, trying to keep the tone light. Privately, she didn’t know how she was going to manage without her closest friend nearby.

The expression Bobbi gave her in return told her exactly what she thought of that. “It’s not as if you’re going halfway across the world,” she said, smiling. “You’ll only be an hour away by train. I’ll come see you and the baby when I can. And you can write to me as much as you want, even if you just need someone to listen.”

Jemma smiled, a little tremulous despite her efforts to be stoic. “I might have to take you up on that.”

A distant whistle sounded, and they turned to see the train approaching from the north, steam billowing from the locomotive’s stack. “This really is it,” Bobbi joked, and set the suitcase she was holding down to fold Jemma into a hug. “You’re going to be a great mum,” she said against her cheek. “I know you will.”

“Thank you,” Jemma mumbled, a lump rising in her throat. Bobbi let her go and stood back a step, smiling as though she were a proud sister. Jemma tried to smile back, but all of the emotions hitting her at once--sadness, regret, fear, bittersweetness--made it difficult.

The train rolled into the station, and after a moment the doors opened to let passengers alight. Jemma picked up her suitcase and walked toward one of them, Bobbi following along behind, and showed her ticket to the conductor waiting in the doorway. Then Bobbi handed the second suitcase to him, and watched as Jemma stepped up into the doorway, a little ungainly with her extra weight, and paused for a second to turn back.

“I’ll write to you,” she said. “I promise.”

Bobbi just smiled again and waved at her. Jemma smiled back before turning and making her way down the car and finding a seat. The conductor got her second suitcase settled next to her, and she thanked him quietly before he left to go assist the other passengers. Then she peered out the window at Bobbi, standing alone on the platform, and what she could see of Bletchley beyond the station. She knew she was seeing it for what was likely the last time. This part of her life was ending and a new part was beginning; this train was taking her off into the great unknown, an uncertain future of living with her parents and having a baby to care for. She thought of all the paths she’d imagined her life taking when she was a young girl, and how this had never been one of them.

But she would make the best life she could for her baby. It was the least she could do, both for herself and for Fitz, who would never see their child grow up and meet all of the big milestones in life: first words, first steps, first day of school, and beyond. She could make sure they were loved and well-cared for, and grew up in a world free from the shadows their father had given his life for. She owed Fitz that much, she felt.

The train’s whistle sounded again, jarring her from her thoughts, and a moment later it lurched to life, starting forward once again along the tracks. Jemma looked back out at Bobbi, who caught her eye through the window and raised a hand in farewell again; then she tried quietly to shut her mind’s door on this part of her life. It was over and done now, never to return. The only way to go was forward, to whatever the future might bring.

-:-

The platform at Euston train station in London was far more crowded by comparison, and Jemma’s eyes roved anxiously over the throng as the train slowed to a stop, searching for any sign of her parents. She couldn’t see them, and was quickly bustled off the train with the help of a friendly conductor before she could start looking again. She had just gotten both her suitcases firmly in her grasp and was set to walk down the platform in search of them when she heard her name being called.

“Jemma! Jemma, darling!”

She turned, and through a gap in the people passing by, saw her parents. There was her mother, small and slim with greying chestnut hair, sharp in her woolen dress and coat with a felt hat perched atop her head, one hand outstretched to beckon her closer; and her father, tall and severe in his grey suit and overcoat, his own hat pulled low to keep out the chill wind. Jemma adjusted her grip on her suitcases and headed toward them, and as soon as she was within arm’s reach, her mother started fussing.

“Jemma! Oh, look at you, look you,” she said, gripping her by the shoulders and running her hands over her arms. Jemma set her suitcases down and silently submitted herself to her mother’s scrutiny. “I didn’t think I’d see you like this so soon,” she continued, looking down at the swell of her daughter’s stomach. “Certainly not before you’d settled down.”

Jemma glanced up at her father. He was watching them, his face unreadable, but his posture didn’t speak of anger or upset. That was something, at least.

“Neither did I,” she said quietly to her mother, thinking of Fitz and the way he’d smiled at her as he’d left that morning, such a long time ago now.

“Well, that can’t be helped now,” Mrs. Simmons sighed, just a touch dramatically. “But let’s go fetch a cab and get you home, out of the cold. We don’t want you catching a chill, what with the baby…”

Dr. Simmons silently picked up both of her suitcases and led the way out of the station and toward the street while Jemma and her mother followed behind, the elder woman already launching into a detailed description of everything Jemma had missed in London since her last visit, what she was up to with her friends in the Women’s Voluntary Service, and who amongst Jemma’s old classmates had gotten engaged or married. Jemma barely listened as she waddled along; all she could think about was how much she was looking forward to being alone in her old room at her parents’ house, where she could sit down again. The baby had been very active all day, pressing on various parts of her anatomy, and walking for any length of time was taxing.

Once her father had hailed a cab and they were all ensconced inside and on their way to Primrose Hill, her mother turned a critical eye on Jemma. “You’ve said you’ve been seeing a doctor, yes? Have you visited any clinics?”

Jemma fought the urge to roll her eyes. “ _Yes_ , Mum,” she said. “I’ve been taking good care of myself, despite what you might think. I’m as prepared for the baby’s arrival as I can be.” When her mother still looked unconvinced, she added, “I’ve made some clothes and blankets, I’ve got my extra rations, and I’ll get another book for the baby when it comes. I promise, I’m well-prepared.”

“How do you plan on supporting yourself, and the baby?” her father asked, breaking his silence.

Jemma looked at him sharply for a moment, unable to find words. Was he suggesting that they would only provide her with room and board? “I’m… I’m not planning on pushing off all care of the baby on Mum, if that’s what you mean,” she said at length. “I’m going to raise my baby myself.”

“I just don’t understand why you kept this from us,” Mrs. Simmons said again, echoing her despair from their phone conversation. “A baby! It’s such a life-changing thing.”

Folding her gloved hands in her lap, Jemma swallowed and looked down. She knew it was too much to ask that her parents have a shred of self-awareness to understand _why_ she’d been so hesitant to tell them, but she’d still hoped. And now here they were, asking. She would have to tell them, sooner or later.

“I suppose,” she began softly, “I think… I was afraid you might turn me away.”

Dr. Simmons scoffed immediately. “Of course not,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “We would never turn our only child, or our grandchild, out into the cold.” Jemma looked up just in time to see him give his wife a pointed look, like they’d already had this conversation, and it made her feel like she’d swallowed a bag of gravel.

Mrs. Simmons shook her head. “And what if people found out that we had?” she countered, and that solidified it for Jemma: her mother, at least, was truly ashamed of her; she still, as always, cared more about what other people thought of her and her family than almost anything else.

She curled her hands into loose fists in her lap. “Thank you,” she said, even quieter, but she wasn’t sure she really meant it.

Thankfully, her parents didn’t take it as anything other than completely genuine. “Tell us about the father, then,” her mother said. “What’s his name? I want to know at least _something_ about the man.”

Jemma clenched her fists tighter, feeling protective of Fitz’s memory. She didn’t want to give her parents any reason to ridicule or slight him, what little she knew of him, especially since he couldn’t defend himself. Fortunately, she was saved by the cab drawing to a stop outside the Simmons’ home, sparing her from having to explain anything about him.

She was finally able to breathe a sigh of relief once she was shut alone in her room with her suitcases, which her father had brought up for her. Slowly easing herself down to sit in the plush armchair in the corner by the window, she let the calm and the quiet wash over her as she looked around the room. Very little about it had changed since she’d gone off to Cambridge several years before; her mother had insisted it be kept immaculately neat and clean for her for whenever she wanted to visit. There was the antique oak wardrobe and vanity that had come from her grandmother, and the white crocheted coverlet on the bed that had been a gift from a great aunt, long passed now. Next to the armchair, beneath the window, was a small shelf that held most of the books she hadn’t been able to carry with her to Bletchley.

But her suitcases wouldn’t unpack themselves while she lost herself in reflection. Standing back up, she crossed to the bed where the first suitcase was laid flat, and opened it up. Right on top of her clothes were Fitz’s letters. She took them out and immediately put them into the top drawer of her vanity, somewhere safe where she would never lose them. She lingered for a moment, thinking about the cramped lettering of his handwriting, then turned her attention to the methodical arrangement of all of her clothes in the wardrobe and dresser.

Just like so many other things in her life recently, she’d never guessed that she would be coming back to her parents’ home to stay, but here she was. It was time to settle in and start making the most of it.

-:-

The next few weeks were a blur. Jemma’s parents were able to buy a cot; and a small, unused room on the lower ground floor of the house was repurposed into a nursery with a few pieces of additional furniture secured from a secondhand shop. Jemma spent her time airing the room out and organizing everything she’d managed to make and gather for the baby, folding up layettes and blankets and cloth nappies and storing them in the short dresser-turned-changing table they’d procured. Glass feeding bottles were bought, and all parts were boiled and scrubbed clean just to be extra sure. Her mother found a doctor for Jemma to see for her last few visits before she was due, who assured her that everything looked normal and that the baby’s heartbeat sounded good and strong.

Outside, V2 rockets continued to fall on London, raining death and destruction and pushing them outside into their Anderson shelter more than once. It was in those moments that Jemma found herself wishing for the safety of Bletchley, the reassurance of Bobbi, or even more fanciful and impossible, Fitz’s soothing brogue. She was sure she could still remember what his voice sounded like, and it was one of the few things that calmed her when the air raid sirens were wailing and their shelter was rocked by the rumble of distant explosions.

But there were a few upsides to living in a city actively battered by war: everyone seemed much too preoccupied to talk about the Simmons’ daughter moving back in, alone and pregnant. At least, there wasn’t any talk that Jemma caught wind of. She kept mostly to her room or downstairs in the nursery, or she stayed in the kitchen with Mrs. Wilson, the kindly older woman who had been the hired help around the house since Jemma had been a young girl. She didn’t know what story her mother was telling her WVS friends, and a large part of her didn’t want to know. She felt she was better off living in blissful ignorance, unaware of what people in London might be saying about her, as opposed to what she had heard in Bletchley.

A consequence of keeping to herself, however, was that she felt isolated. She could write to Bobbi, and she did, but she no longer had any friends in the city. They were all either at Bletchley, scattered to the winds after matriculation from Cambridge, or had been called up to fight in the war. Her mother, while as kind as she could be given her personality, was not someone Jemma would consider sharing her deepest thoughts with at all. It felt like the only ally she had was Mrs. Wilson, who had always treated her well and hadn’t stopped when Jemma had come home pregnant. They spent many hours in the kitchen together, the older woman giving Jemma as many child-rearing tips as she could think of, with Jemma eating up as much of it as she could, wanting to be the best mother she could be.

Yet she still felt very alone, keenly feeling the loss of Bobbi and the rest of her friends at Bletchley, and wishing they were closer as her due date drew near.

That feeling was never stronger than the day her baby was born. She began feeling labor pains in the late morning, and upon alerting her parents, got into a cab and went to the hospital as fast as she could. Upon arrival, Jemma was immediately taken away from her parents and whisked down to the building’s basement, where all delivering mothers were brought to keep them safe from potential air raids. It might have been for their safety, but it was incredibly depressing, and more than a bit frightening: the basement was dim and crowded and musty, and Jemma couldn’t think of a worse place to give birth.

There were worse places, she knew that. But in the moment, slightly panicked and alone, fixated as she was on the small things, being shut away in the basement felt like a very big thing.

No one was allowed to stay with her, and for the longest time no one was with her at all aside from a midwife who came to check on her progress every once in awhile. Jemma tried to keep her breathing steady and not focus on the growing pain, but with no one and nothing there to distract her, it was very difficult. She felt a cold sweat break out over her face, and her fingers clenched in the starched white sheets of the hospital bed as she was seized by another contraction, making her stomach tighten with intense pain.

Sometime later, when the midwife returned again, a doctor and a nurse were with her. Lost in a miasma of pain and barely aware of anything outside of it and the pounding of her pulse in her ears, Jemma barely heard the doctor when he said, “I can see the head. It’s time to start pushing.”

The nurse walked over to the head of the bed, which had been adjusted to allow Jemma to recline, and held out a towel between two hands. “You need to sit up and pull on this for me, love,” she said. “You’ve got to start pushing.”

Jemma blinked sluggishly at her, barely feeling like she could move, much less _push_. “Please,” she whispered. “Something for the pain. Anything.” Her entire abdomen felt like it was being put through a grinder.

Something passed through the nurse’s eyes, and she shook her head once. “The doctor says not for you. Come on, let’s grab onto the towel now.”

Jemma let out a bleat of confused dismay--just as another wave of pain wracked her body and turned it into a sob. She didn’t understand why she was being denied, until the nurse’s look of regret passed through her mind again, and suddenly she understood: it was because she was unmarried. The doctor was punishing her, trying to teach her a lesson. She broke down in tears, unsure if it was from the pain or the cruelty or both, and feebly reached out with shaking hands to grasp the towel the nurse was holding out.

As she began to follow the midwife’s directions to sit up in bed and push, Jemma lost herself to a haze of repetition and orders and unbearable pain. She screamed, she cried, she felt tears rolling down her face as she tried her best to do what the nurse and the midwife wanted her to do, even if it felt like it accomplished nothing. The hours dragged on and the nurse was replaced by a new one, the torment never let up, and Jemma became convinced that she was going to die there, alone without family, in the dark, dusty basement of a hospital.

At its worst, when she genuinely felt like she was going to come apart at the seams from the agony, when her hair was damp with sweat and her throat sore from all of her crying, her face streaked with tears, she found a moment of weakness where she hated Fitz. She hated him for dying and leaving her alone at the mercy of a barbaric doctor who cared more about antiquated social mores than treating patients, and she hated him for putting her in this position in the first place. She hated him for being charming and funny and kind and handsome enough that she’d ever had the thought to invite him in. She hated him because he wasn’t there.

Finally, sometime in the wee hours of the morning, long past what Jemma thought she was capable of enduring, the brunt of the pain stopped and a high, thin wail cut through the air. “It’s a girl,” she heard the doctor say, and as she collapsed back against the pillows in a heap of dazed exhaustion and pain, she had the dim thought that Bobbi would be glad to know that she was right.

She wasn’t aware of much else for the next few minutes besides her own breathing and the pain, which was now a dull, throbbing roar rather than the all-consuming torture it had just been. She could hear the quiet voices of the doctor, the midwife, and the nurse talking, and the quiet mewling of the baby, and Jemma thought faintly that she wanted to see her. _Her._ She had a daughter.

Then the midwife came to her, and got enough of her attention to help lower a squirming bundle into her arms. Her daughter, swaddled in a blanket, still fussing quietly. “There you are, now,” the midwife said gently. “Careful with her head.”

Jemma looked down into her daughter’s face for the first time and felt such a rush of love it nearly took her breath away. She was beautiful: her button nose and rosebud lips, her pink skin, the shock of dark, downy hair on her head, her tiny little fingers peeking out of the swaddling. She didn’t know what she wanted to marvel over first, amazed that she and Fitz could have created such a perfect little wonder.

Fitz. He should have been there, waiting for the news of their daughter’s arrival.

Tears welled up in her eyes, of both profound sorrow and happiness, and they slipped down her cheeks as Jemma brushed her hand lightly over the crown of her daughter’s head. The baby burbled quietly, shifting a bit beneath her blanket, then let out a soft cry. It was perhaps one of the sweetest sounds she had ever heard.

The nurse approached, clipboard in hand, and smiled at her. “Have you picked out a name for her yet, love?”

Jemma glanced up at her, then back to her daughter. “Yes, I have,” she said after a moment, as clearly as she could given her exhaustion. “It’s Eleanor.” She traced a finger over the baby’s cheek and smiled. “Eleanor Anne Fitz.”


	5. Chapter 5

Eleanor, or Ellie as Jemma took to calling her, was an extremely calm, easygoing baby. She didn’t cry or fuss much, which made her a lot like her mother, according to Mrs. Simmons.

“Oh, you were such a pleasant baby,” she said, watching as Jemma gave Ellie her late morning bottle. “Hardly ever made a peep. The doctor was concerned about your lung development, and we worried that you might have trouble breathing as you got older, asthma and all that, but you were just fine.”

Jemma smiled and looked down at Ellie, who was sucking away at her bottle with zeal. It was nice to know that her daughter was already taking after her in some capacity, that perhaps she’d passed down traits that were already manifesting. She just wished she knew anything about what Fitz had been like as a child, to know if Ellie was like him in any way yet. She thought maybe her nose looked a bit like she remembered his looking, as much as an infant’s nose could resemble a grown person’s, and her eyes were a crystal blue like his had been. But Mrs. Simmons had said that even Jemma’s eyes had looked blue when she was born, and had turned brown over the first few weeks of her life.

It didn’t take long for Ellie to finish her bottle. Then Jemma got her burped and swaddled, and took her outside to settle her back down in her pram in the rear garden, tucked snugly beneath a few layers of warm blankets to keep out the cold. After she was certain Ellie would sleep, she went back inside and took the bottle to the kitchen to rinse out and set aside for Mrs. Wilson to boil clean with the other bottles later while she cooked dinner.

Her life had quickly settled into a routine once she had come home from the hospital with Ellie: a strict schedule of feedings every four hours, washing soiled nappies under Mrs. Wilson’s guidance, and keeping an eye on her daughter as she napped the rest of the day. It left her frequently exhausted and dreaming of extra rest, but she considered it a small price to pay to see Ellie well-cared for and thriving. As she often found herself thinking, this wasn’t the life she had planned for herself and she couldn’t help but feel as though she had placed an undue burden on her parents by moving back in with them, but laying eyes on Ellie for the first time had given her an unexpectedly fierce love for her daughter, and that was what sustained her and got her through every day.

She had also secured herself a bit of light freelance work translating French documents for people her father knew through his social circle, and that occasionally kept her busy away from her mother’s knitting party from the WVS, who always met in the sitting room in the afternoon. That, Jemma felt, was probably for the best. She’d overheard her mother telling her friends that Jemma’s husband had been killed in France. They’d had a very quiet wedding just before he’d been sent over, and that’s why there hadn’t been any announcement. Widowed, Jemma had come home to avoid having the baby alone.

The lie made Jemma grind her teeth, an anger she didn’t dare express burning beneath her skin. She was sure she would have been proud to be Fitz’s wife if they’d ever made it that far, but she still hated the idea that just because they hadn’t been married or engaged or officially spoken for, that it meant he was any less precious to her, or that their daughter was something to be ashamed of. It galled her that her mother felt she had to make up a story in order for her and Ellie to appear respectable to her friends.

But it also made her unbearably sad, because a part of her wanted nothing more than to say that Fitz was her husband, that he was alive and well and would hopefully be home soon--that they were a proper family. She couldn’t know if he would have married her, but she was sure he would have wanted to be a part of Ellie’s life at the very least. And that was something she fantasized about on dark, lonely nights when she was up alone feeding Ellie, or when her isolation pressed down upon her a bit too much: Fitz with her and their daughter, all of them together, happy. She knew it wasn’t the best or healthiest coping mechanism, but it helped her to get through her days.

A small boon came in the form of Bobbi. Jemma had exchanged letters with her a few times since Ellie had been born, but her friend made good on her promise to visit, during the second week of March when Ellie was a few weeks old. Jemma was ecstatic to see her, badly in need of a friendly and familiar face who wasn’t her parents or Mrs. Wilson. As soon as Bobbi arrived on the doorstep, Jemma took her downstairs to see the baby.

“She’s so tiny,” Bobbi said quietly, looking down at Ellie sleeping peacefully in her cot. The weather was poor, so Jemma had kept her inside for her naps. “Look at her little hands, and her face. She’s beautiful.” She looked up at Jemma and smiled. “I think she looks like you.”

Jemma smiled back warmly before turning her attention back to her daughter. “She’s got my hair, that’s for sure,” she replied nodding at the tuft of dark curls on Ellie’s head. “But the curl is all Fitz, I think.”

Bobbi folded her hands over the rail of the cot, looking closer, then turned back to Jemma. “Do you think she’s gotten anything else from him?” she asked.

Feeling the familiar pang of sadness that came whenever she thought of how little she truly knew about Fitz, Jemma shrugged lightly. “It’s too early to tell, really. Her eyes are still blue like his were, but my mum said they could change and get darker.” She sighed quietly. “I hope they stay blue. That would be nice.”

She tried to picture the clear brilliant blue of Fitz’s eyes in her mind, and worried that her memory of him was growing a bit fuzzy. He’d only been right there in front of her for such a short time, and a lot of that had been spent in the dark. It made her heart ache something terrible, thinking that she might be losing what little she had left of him; but what she could remember--the sound of his voice, the stretch of his smile, the warmth of him next to her--she held onto as fiercely as she could.

They watched Ellie for a little while longer before Jemma took Bobbi upstairs for sandwiches and tea, and there they got caught up properly. Bobbi asked in earnest how being a mother was treating her, and Jemma answered that it was tiring, but she was still so new to it that it was difficult to give a proper verdict.

“But it’s worth it, I think,” she said, setting her teacup down. “I know Ellie’s still so young and that she’s not _really_ smiling yet, but seeing her face light up sometimes when she sees me… it makes all the, well, unpleasantness bearable.” She swallowed. “And it makes me feel like I’m keeping Fitz’s memory alive.”

Bobbi smiled gently. “I think he’d be very proud of you.”

Jemma’s return smile was a little weak, still tinged with grief, and she fought the urge to pick at her sandwich’s crust. Wanting to change the subject, she took a breath and asked, “Have you heard from Lance lately?”

Bobbi’s face brightened. “Yes! I have, actually, I got a letter from him a few days ago. His mood is up. He couldn’t say a lot, of course, but he seems to think they’ve got the Nazis on the run and that they’ll be home before summer.”

Well, that was certainly good news. Jemma sat up straighter in her chair, the remains of her sandwich forgotten. “Really?” she said. “I’ve heard some encouraging news on the wireless, but if it’s coming straight from him on the front, that must mean something. Do you think it’s true?”

Taking a sip of her tea, Bobbi nodded. Looking around to make sure no one else in the house was within earshot, she leaned in and lowered her voice. “The unofficial word at Bletchley says the same. The Nazis are running out of fuel and men, and with us on one side and the Russians on the other, it’s only a matter of time. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

Jemma sat back in her seat, trying to imagine what an end to the war might be like. It had been six long years, almost. The grey drudgery and the food and fuel and clothing shortages, the rations, the air raids… it had all become so commonplace and so entrenched into their daily lives that it was hard in a way to picture things returning to some semblance of normal--whatever that might be, now.

“Oh, no, of course not,” she said after a moment, giving Bobbi a conspiratorial smile. “I haven’t heard a thing.” Then she tilted her head thoughtfully. “Do you think you’ll go back to America, when it’s all over?”

Bobbi nodded. “I think so. If Lance is released from service, anyway. I’ve been in England too long, now.” She smiled, somewhat wistfully. “And he’s always wanted to see California.”

Bobbi stayed for a few more hours, even helping out with Ellie’s afternoon feeding. She was excited to see the baby awake, even if she fussed a little bit, and eagerly accepted when Jemma offered to let Bobbi hold her for a few minutes.

By the time Bobbi left to catch her train back to Bletchley early in the evening, Jemma felt a lot better, and much more like her old self. Being able to see her friend and spend some time with her had done wonders for her mood, and given her a boost to help get her through her lonely days at home.

The last V2 rocket fell on London during the final week of March. It felt like the entire city breathed a collective sigh of relief once they realized no more were coming, and that no more of the Nazis’ “Vengeance Weapons” would terrorize the city. Jemma was especially relieved; with Ellie’s nursery being on the lower ground floor of the house, she had the most protection from an air raid, but there was still an ever-present threat of harm and injury. Of course, with no more bombings they could all breathe easier. It let Jemma release a tension she hadn’t even been consciously aware she’d been holding until it was gone. Beyond that, an end to the bombings sent a signal that perhaps Lance and Bobbi and all of the news reports were correct, and the war really was drawing to a close.

When V-E Day was declared a little over a month later on May 8th, it felt like the entire country dropped everything it was doing to celebrate. People flooded the streets dancing and cheering, church bells tolled, and motor traffic ground to a halt as everyone let go of all the stress and worry they’d been carrying for so long. For most people, there was no room for sadness, only joy; tears of happiness flowed, couples hugged, and strangers kissed in a rare display of complete exultation. The war was finally over, and soon the nation’s men would be coming home.

Jemma watched from the sidelines with Ellie in her arms as several residents of her parents’ row set up tables in the middle of the road, intent on throwing an impromptu street party to mark the occasion. The air was festive, smiles on everyone’s faces as they chatted to each other while working, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a scene like this. She’d heard reports on the wireless that Piccadilly Circus was a madhouse, with people dancing in the fountain and even climbing the lamp poles. It made her think of how she’d met Fitz there just a year prior, and what the square had looked like then under the blackout as they’d walked through it.

The memory made her smile slightly, faint and small. There was a lot to celebrate with the end to the war, but for her the victory was bittersweet. It had come too late for Fitz and so many other men like him, who had perished for what they believed was just and right, and who would never return home to the families waiting for them. She looked at Ellie, who was watching the scene play out on the street in front of her with her father’s wide blue eyes. Jemma knew she was far too young to remember any of this as she got older, but she still wanted her daughter to experience some of it, to be able to say she’d been present. But Jemma would still have to find a way to explain to her what exactly they’d been celebrating, and how it meant she’d lost her father before she had even been born.

-:-

The sound of Ellie’s distant, muffled cries woke Jemma up from a deep sleep. Groaning quietly, slightly disoriented, she shifted a bit and blinked her eyes open. Pale morning sunlight lit up the ceiling in a soft glow, and she supposed it was nearing 6 o’clock, if the alarm clock hadn’t gone off yet. Ellie was right on time in announcing her need for a nappy change and a bottle.

She was just about to get up to get dressed and go see to her when a sleepy, rumbly, _male_ voice to her left said, “I’ll go get her up so you can go on down to the kitchen.”

Jemma froze. There was no mistaking that voice; it was imprinted upon her memory, familiar now even after such a long time absent. It belonged to Fitz. Almost afraid of what she would see, she looked over--across a bed that was too large to be hers at her parents’ house--and there he was, lying on his back beneath the blankets in striped cotton pajamas, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Seeing him right there next to her knocked the breath from her chest, leaving her shocked and speechless. She couldn’t even cry. All she could do was stare. He looked beautiful--healthy, whole, and alive, and close enough to touch. But she didn’t dare, lest she spoil the dream--and that was certainly what this was, wasn’t it? A wonderful, impossible dream.

Fitz pushed up to sit and glanced over at her as he did, giving her a small smile. “Come on,” he said, reaching out to gently squeeze her shoulder. Then he was gone, stifling a yawn behind one hand as he padded out of the room and away toward the sound of Ellie’s cries.

For a moment, all Jemma could do was sit in overwhelmed silence, trying to calm the racing of her heart. Definitely a dream, then, because otherwise Fitz’s presence was unexplainable. She’d dreamed of Fitz before on occasion, but it had never been quite like this, so real and tangible, and she’d never been aware of it being a dream at the time. Seized by the sudden fear of losing him again, dream or not, she rose from the bed and followed him out of the room without bothering to change out of her nightdress.

Following the sound of Ellie’s sniffles across an unfamiliar tiny landing, she found Fitz standing in the middle of a bright and airy nursery, holding Ellie against his chest and speaking to her in soothing tones. The sight of him holding their daughter was so striking that it tore open a jagged hole of grief and longing in her chest, making her sag against the door frame for support.

Fitz noticed her watching, and turned slightly so Ellie could see her. “Look, Mummy’s come to make sure I’ve got everything handled,” he said to her. Then he smiled at Jemma. “Go on. I’ve got her, I promise. I can change a nappy.”

Jemma had no idea if he could or not. Perhaps dream-Fitz could do anything he wanted; it wasn’t the real world, after all. Anything was possible. Smiling weakly at him, she forced herself to turn and head downstairs.

A narrow staircase led her down to a small entryway with a coat stand and a few pairs of shoes lined up next to the door. Instinctively going to the left, she found herself in a cozy kitchen that was just large enough to also hold a dining table near the far wall. The kitchen area itself was small and neat with a modern-looking icebox and a lacquered Aga stove. Jemma found herself automatically moving to the icebox and was unsurprised to find a day’s worth of milk bottles already prepared for Ellie waiting inside; evidently, her dream self also liked to be prepared.

Deciding to just go with the flow of the dream, it didn’t take much effort to light the stove and get a saucepan of water heating to warm one of the bottles. While she worked, she glanced out the window above the sink. Outside, she could see a small garden, and beyond that, rolling green forested hills. Wherever they were, they seemed to have found themselves a quaint little cottage in some beautiful countryside.

As she set the bottle to stand up in the saucepan, Jemma heard Fitz come downstairs. He was still speaking to Ellie, but quietly, and she couldn’t make out what he was saying. A minute later the soft, muted sounds of a wireless playing a pleasant tune drifted in from another room. She had the thought that this was an awfully domestic, simple dream, but she wanted to bask in it forever. It had Fitz, and Ellie, and all of them together. It was her deepest fantasy.

Once she’d estimated the milk had long enough to warm, she tested it by tapping out a couple of drops on the inside of her wrist. Perfect. She dried her arm off on a flannel and walked in the direction of the music.

On the other side of the staircase was a small sitting room, just as cozy and neat as the kitchen. A tidy sofa and two armchairs were gathered around the stone fireplace, and there were multiple small photographs in frames lining the mantel. She wanted to get a closer look at them, but her attention was drawn to Fitz, who was standing in front of a tall wireless radio tucked into the corner, still holding Ellie and clearly letting her listen to the music that was playing. Jemma softly cleared her throat.

Fitz turned around and smiled when he saw her; his pleased expression made her heart tug. “She still likes the music,” he said, nodding at the wireless. “Does the trick every time when she’s a bit fussy.”

That was true, Jemma thought. On the rare occasions when Ellie was cranky and just wouldn’t go down for a nap, Jemma would take her to her parents’ sitting room and turn on the wireless, letting it play quietly. The music always caught her attention and distracted her from whatever was irritating her, and usually within a quarter hour she’d be sound asleep.

The fact that dream-Fitz knew this made her oddly emotional and, a lump choking her throat, she simply raised the bottle in her hand. Fitz nodded and brought Ellie over to her, exchanging baby for bottle so she could take their daughter to the sofa and feed her.

Fitz sat next to her, his arm spread across the back of the sofa behind her, and they were quiet for awhile, both of them content with watching Ellie suck away at her milk. It gave Jemma space to contemplate her dreamscape and how everything was soft and fuzzy around the edges, tinged slightly golden, but perfect. Too perfect. Fitz was with her, just as she’d always wanted, and he was a wonderful father, just as she’d imagined he would be. He loved her. He loved _them_. He hadn’t said as much, of course, but she knew--just as she knew exactly where the milk bottles were and where the coal was for the stove and that their cottage was located in Perthshire, even without needing to see a map.    

“Penny for your thoughts?” Fitz asked quietly, bringing her out of her musings.

She looked up at him and smiled, though it was a touch sad. Just a touch. “I’m… I’m just very glad that you’re here,” she managed, not trusting herself to say much more than that.

“Well, of course I am,” Fitz replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You, Ellie… you’re my family.”

Jemma couldn’t help the tears that welled up in her eyes at that, her heart twisting painfully. Those were words she desperately wanted to hear from him, but knew she never could, not in real life at least. Seeing her upset, Fitz’s face immediately fell in concern, and his arm dropped to curl around her shoulders, bringing her in as close to him as he could with Ellie still in her lap.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured soothingly, leaning in to rest his forehead on hers. “I know I was away for a long time, but I’m here now. Yeah?”

Jemma nodded, helpless to respond any other way. “Yes,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. She knew this was all too good to be true, that she would wake up and he would be gone, but she wanted to soak him in for as long as she could.

“Hey,” Fitz whispered again, then tilted his face in to kiss her. It was soft and sweet and everything Jemma remembered him being, and she practically melted into him, Ellie nearly forgotten in her lap as she continued to drink her bottle. Fitz sighed, but just as he moved his mouth against hers, gently parting her lips, her eyes flew open.

She was alone, in her single bed in her room at her parents’ house, morning light spilling in through the window, the phantom taste of Fitz’s kiss still lingering on her lips. As soon as she realized where she was, Jemma choked on a wet sob, hot tears running down her cheeks.

She’d known the dream wouldn’t last, but the abrupt jolt back to being cold and alone without him was too much to take in the moment. The reminder that Fitz wasn’t there and never would be was harsh, and the pain of having been given a glimpse at what could have been, even through just a dream, was almost more painful than she could bear.

But there was no time to wallow in self-pity, because she could hear the sound of the real Ellie crying, two floors below her. Swallowing thickly and wiping her cheeks, Jemma looked to the small clock on her bedside table and saw that it was just before 6 o’clock. _How ironic_ , she thought bitterly. But Ellie needed to be taken care of, so she forced herself to get up and quickly get dressed for the day.

By the time she made it down the stairs to the lower ground floor of the house and Ellie’s nursery, her daughter’s wails were insistent and fairly loud. Jemma opened the door and came inside, still feeling unsteady emotionally but needing to focus on Ellie--anything to distract her from the grief that was squeezing her chest.

“Don’t worry, darling, Mummy’s here,” she said softly, reaching into the cot to pick the baby up. Ellie still fussed, but her cries quieted considerably just by being in her mother’s arms. Jemma pulled her to her chest and held her close, dipping her head and breathing in the familiar sweet scent of powder and baby that never failed to make her feel better.

“It’s just you and me, darling,” she whispered, closing her eyes and willing back another wave of tears. “Just you and me.”

She stood there for a moment, taking comfort in her daughter’s presence and reminding herself of what was important, before turning to the dresser to pull out a clean nappy. It was time to start their day, and move forward. Because that was all she could do, wasn’t it? Keep putting one foot forward in front of the other.

-:-

Spring turned to summer, and Jemma began to develop a horrid case of cabin fever. If she’d thought working at Bletchley and seeing the same people day in and day out there was insular, it was even worse in London with only her parents and Mrs. Wilson for company. She longed to get out of the house and escape the seclusion and loneliness she felt, even for just a little while.

To mitigate it, she began taking Ellie for walks around Primrose Hill in her pram when the weather permitted. Sometimes she would take her through the park, enjoying the sloping green lawns and the view of the city from the top of the Hill. Other times, she’d go down along the shops on Regent’s Park Road and look at what was on offer through the storefront windows, imagining what it might be like to take her daughter out on the weekend when she was a little bit older.

It helped to relieve some of her boredom and restlessness, the feeling of being cooped up inside and stuck in a monotonous rotation of feedings, nappy changes, and short bouts of sleep. The warm air and bright sunshine lightened her overall mood so much that she began to take Ellie out for walks every day if the weather was nice enough.

One afternoon in early July, Jemma decided to take Ellie to the London Zoo. She knew her daughter could hardly see the animals there, much less appreciate them, but it was something new to do and it wasn’t a very far walk from her parents’ house.

It turned out to be a beautiful day for it; the sky was clear and the air was warm. The Zoo itself was full of visitors, attendance being up now that the war was over and many of the animals had been brought back from safekeeping at Whipsnade. Jemma didn’t feel so out of place with her pram--there were plenty of mothers and nannies with young children about, and it allowed her to relax and enjoy herself a bit, taking in the exhibits with a bit of childlike fascination that she thought she’d lost. She smiled at the penguins waddling around their little pool, marveled at the bright colors of all the tropical birds, and admired the lions sunning themselves on the grass.

After a while walking, she found herself in the primate section and decided to take a short break and rest on a bench, in the shade of a few trees that lined one side of the path. In front of her was an enclosure for a species of small monkey--white-naped mangabeys, according to the sign in front of the railing. Jemma could see one, sitting still partway up a large tree branch, its long tail curled beneath it.

The little creature reminded her of Fitz; she could remember him telling her over their drinks from the soda fountain about how much he adored monkeys, how interesting he thought they were. He’d said his favorites were capuchins. She hadn’t seen any of those yet, though the mangabey did look similar to how he’d described them. She looked over at Ellie, asleep in her pram which was parked next to the bench, and smiled. She would have to bring her back when she was older so she could see the monkeys again, and then she would explain to her how much her father had loved them. Maybe it would help Ellie feel a connection to him.

She was still watching the lone mangabey that she could see, lost in thought, when a familiar voice called out her name.

“Jemma?”

A bolt of shock lanced through her as she realized who the voice belonged to, and in the second it took for her head to turn, she thought that it couldn’t _possibly_ be--

But when she looked up, standing a few yards away on the path and staring at her with his mouth hanging open, was none other than Fitz.

The sight of him barreled into her like a freight train off its rails and Jemma sucked in a sharp breath, immediately standing from her seat on the bench and blinking rapidly. He couldn’t be there in front of her; he simply couldn’t. It was just another dream. If she could clear her vision of the tears that suddenly swam in them, she would see that she was mistaken and she’d just had a funny turn. Maybe she was dehydrated and needed some water.

But when she blinked again he was still there, looking at her like _she_ was the ghost, his jaw working as though he was trying and failing to form words. She didn’t understand. They’d sent her letters back. How could he be here? Why had he stopped writing to her? He _looked_ healthy--color in his cheeks, his slender frame filling out his smart tweed suit well--but nothing was making sense. Her head was swimming and she felt a little faint, completely at a loss.

Fitz took a few steps toward her, visibly swallowing. “Jemma--”  
  
“I thought you were dead!” she blurted in anguish, then quickly pressed a hand to her mouth to keep anything else impulsive from slipping out. Fitz stopped short, his eyes widening in surprise before it turned to confusion.

“What?” he said, frowning, looking at a similar loss for words.

Jemma took a deep breath to forestall the tears that still threatened just at hearing his voice again. “My letters,” she explained, clasping her hands together tightly at her chest. “All of my letters that I wrote to you, the Army sent them back to me, unopened. They stamped them ‘undeliverable.’ And I hadn’t heard from you in so long, I didn’t know what else to think. I didn’t think you would just--I wouldn’t have received a telegram, because we weren’t…” She shook her head, then looked him over from head to toe, still unable to believe that he was standing right in front of her. “But you’re alive. I don’t understand.”

The longer she talked, the more Fitz’s expression had slipped from confusion into horror, then something approaching shame. When she was through, his bit his lip, seemingly marshaling his words, then sighed. “I had to switch companies right after I landed in France,” he said, looking up at her. “I… I don’t know why that would have kept me from my mail, though. I do know several of my despatches to the _Telegraph_ were lost and I had to resend them. By the time I realized that, I… well, it had been awhile since I’d gotten a letter from you, and I thought… that…” He sighed again and hung his head. “I thought that maybe you’d found someone else.”

Jemma sucked in a small gasp, stung. He thought she’d dropped him, with no word? “How could you think that?” she breathed, brokenhearted all over again, forgetting that they had still been getting to know one another. “Did I ever give any indication… _Fitz_.”

“I know.” Fitz’s shoulders were still slumped, and he looked miserable. “I’m sorry. I… I don’t know what I was thinking.” Then he straightened up and cast about, clearly looking to change the subject, and his eyes landed on Ellie’s pram. “So you’re a mum now,” he said with forced cheer, and looked back to her. “She is yours, right? And it’s a she?”

The entire scene took on a surreal tinge then, and Jemma felt light-headed again. Fitz was looking at his daughter for the very first time, and he had no idea. None. Not trusting herself to speak, she simply nodded her head, unable to tear her eyes away from him.

Fitz nodded and glanced briefly back down at Ellie, shifting his weight on his feet. “Who’s, ah, who’s the lucky father?” he asked, more than a bit awkward, trying and failing to play it casual.

Jemma felt like the inside of her chest was collapsing. He truly had no clue. She could barely breathe for how tightly squeezed her lungs felt, and she was on the verge of a nervous fit. This was it: the moment she had to tell him. She was terrified of his reaction. Would he turn around and walk away from her, never to return? Or would he sweep her off her feet and promise never to leave them again? Honestly, she wasn’t sure which option terrified her more. But Fitz had a right to know, and though she felt like she might faint from fear, she had to keep herself together.

She took a moment to collect herself, aware that Fitz was watching her with a growing frown on his face, then inhaled and looked him in the eye. “I’m afraid there’s no easy way to say this,” she said, her voice only a little unsteady. She clenched her hands together at her waist. “So I’ll be direct.” One more deep breath. “She’s yours, Fitz. You’re her father.”

Fitz leaned slightly away from her as his eyes went wide and his jaw slack, his face draining of all color. Jemma watched him, her heart caught in her throat, while his eyes went from her to the pram and back to her again, then back once more to the pram, his breathing picking up pace. After a long moment, he finally swallowed thickly and looked back at her, a deep furrow in his brow.

“But we were careful,” he said, sounding hopelessly lost.

“I know,” she managed. She felt fragile, like she could shatter at the slightest touch. “But it failed.”

Fitz stared at her for another moment, his chest visibly rising and falling with every breath, before looking back down at Ellie. “What’s her name?”

It took a pause before Jemma could speak again, as overwhelmed as she felt. He wasn’t reacting badly, but she wasn’t sure it was entirely good yet, either. Wanting to know his daughter’s name was a positive sign, though, perhaps. “Eleanor,” she said quietly. “Eleanor Anne Fitz.”

His head whipped back up, his expression thunderstruck. “You gave her my name?” he gasped, his voice hoarse.

Tears were threatening again, and at first Jemma could only nod. “I did,” she mumbled wetly, twisting her hands together. “I--I wanted her to have a piece of her father.”

Fitz did turn away from her then, taking a couple of steps away with one hand at his waist and the other dragging over his face as he tilted it to the sky. Her gorge rose, fearing that she’d managed to offend him by giving their daughter his last name and that now he’d storm away from them--but then he swung back toward her, and his expression was devastated.

“I abandoned you,” he said, his voice thick with guilt.

Something like relief muddled with dismay washed through her. “Fitz, no--”

“I left you alone,” he insisted, stepping closer to her. “Both of you. Maybe I couldn’t have come home, but I could have gotten leave and come to see you. I could’ve seen both of you, I could’ve written letters, given you some support, _anything_.” He shook his head, looking utterly anguished and close to tears. “But I didn’t, because--”

He stopped and looked down, too distressed to go on. Jemma looked away as well, blinking as a few tears finally escaped and slipped down her cheeks. What he’d just described had been everything she’d wanted and wished for from him during her pregnancy, and hearing that he would have freely given it was too much to take in at the moment.

Brushing her tears away with one hand, she looked around. There was a small group of zoo visitors headed their way along the path, from the direction of the gorilla pens. As much as she wanted to continue talking to Fitz--or to hold onto him and never let go again--they were in public, hardly the best place for the emotional breakdown that both of them were poised right on the edge of. She took a moment to try and compose herself, then reached out to lightly touch Fitz’s arm. It felt like her fingertips burned at the contact.

“Fitz,” she said quietly. He looked up at her, his face still weighed down by feeling, and she gave him the best smile she could muster. “This isn’t the place we ought to be having this sort of conversation,” she continued, and though her voice wavered, she was gentle. “My parents’ home isn’t far away. Would… would you like to come over for some tea?”

Fitz nodded quickly before stopping, closing his eyes and letting out a deep breath, then nodded again, slowly and more deliberately. “I would,” he replied, just as quiet. “Very much.” When her tentative smile widened, he returned it weakly and gestured down the path with one hand. “Just lead the way.”

Jemma gave him one last tiny smile, then walked around Ellie’s pram to take the handlebar and start pushing the pram down the path in the direction that would take them to the exit of the zoo. Fitz fell into step next to her. She looked down at her daughter, who was still napping peacefully, and considered the fact that she had slept completely through the tumult of her parents’ reunion. She was lucky, Jemma thought. She didn’t have to sort through a mess of emotions and grief and heartbreak and consider where to go from here now that those feelings had been torn afresh and turned on their heads.

Neither Fitz nor Jemma spoke as they made their way out of the zoo and back to Regent’s Park Road, following the curve of the street to the northwest. Fitz was walking with his hands stuffed deep in his trouser pockets and appeared to be lost in thought, though he kept sneaking looks at both her and the pram. Not that she could blame him; she was hard-pressed not to watch him rather than focus on the pram and the road, afraid he would vanish if she took her eyes off of him, their entire exchange at the zoo having been a deeply wishful figment of her imagination. But he stayed at her side as they continued up the pavement, and she couldn’t help but be thankful for whatever fortuitous circumstances had led them both to the zoo on the same day.

It also occurred to her as they walked that they probably looked like a proper family--a young husband and wife out taking their infant daughter for a stroll through the neighborhood. It made her heart burn with barely-concealed pain that they were the very picture of everything she’d dreamed about on long, cold nights by herself, but their reality was so far away from it. She had to remind herself to guard her heart--that as much as Fitz was willing to come talk to her and show an interest an Ellie, it wasn’t the same as him wanting to be fully involved in their lives. There was still so much they had to talk about.

But as they turned onto Rothwell Street and her parents’ blue-painted door came into view, Jemma felt a burst of new panic. Her mother’s friends from the WVS might still be around; if she brought Fitz in, she had no idea how she would explain to them what had happened. Looking at Fitz, whose eyes were scanning the tall terraced houses on either side of them with interest, she also had no idea how she could tell him that a small chunk of London society believed they were married.

Perhaps she could improvise as the situation revealed itself. Hardly ideal, but maybe the course of action that would require the least amount of embarrassing explanations to either side.

When she slowed down in front of the steps up to her parents’ door, Fitz seemed to shake himself out of the fog that he was in and darted forward to go up ahead of her and turned to help get the pram up the few steps to the stoop. “Here,” he said, awkwardly bending to get a grip on the pram’s frame and carefully lift it up the steps as she pushed. “Let me help.”

A true, genuine smile broke over Jemma’s face as they went, and she checked on Ellie as the back wheels cleared the top step. She’d shifted slightly in her sleep, rubbing a little fist over her face, but remained otherwise still. “Thank you,” she said, looking back up at Fitz. “That’s usually a lot bumpier. Do you mind getting the door?”

“What?” Fitz’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, no. No, here--” He turned to reach for the handle, and opened the door before standing aside to let Jemma push the pram through.

Inside, the house was quiet, but that didn’t mean her mother’s friends weren’t silently knitting away in the sitting room. Jemma pushed the pram forward enough to give Fitz room to come in and close the door behind him, and was just going to go peek around the sitting room door when Mrs. Wilson came into the entryway from the kitchen.

Her eyebrows raised curiously when she saw Fitz, but before she could say anything, Jemma came forward. “Are my mum’s friends still here?” she asked in a hushed tone.

Mrs. Wilson shook her head. “No, pet, they’ve all gone for the day,” she replied, and Jemma sagged with relief. “But if you like, I can go upstairs and fetch her for you.”

Jemma nodded. “Yes, please, I would appreciate that. Thank you.” She went to take up the handlebar to the pram again and turned it to wheel into the sitting room, Fitz on her heels.

She parked the pram next to the sofa and took a deep breath, mentally preparing herself. She had a few ideas of how her mother would react to finding out Fitz was alive, and she didn’t particularly care for any of them. She had to think quickly on how to make it as painless and unembarrassing for Fitz as possible. Knowing her mother, though, that would prove to be difficult.

Fitz, meanwhile, was standing by the pram and watching Ellie sleep, a contemplative, almost wistful look on his face. Something of a plan in place, Jemma looked up and turned to him, then froze as she took in how he was looking at their daughter. She wanted to say something, but her words caught in her throat. He must have felt her eyes on him, though, because he glanced up at her and smiled slightly. “So,” he said lightly, “when’s--”

The sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupted him, and as one they both turned to look at the door. A second later Mrs. Simmons came through, followed by Mrs. Wilson. When the elder Simmons saw Fitz, her expression turned curious and questioning, and she turned to Jemma for an explanation. “What’s all this?”

Feeling a bit faint again, Jemma curled her hands into loose fists at her sides and licked her lips. “Ah, Mum, Mrs. Wilson, this… this is Leo Fitz.” She anxiously glanced aside at him. “He’s Ellie’s father.”

Mrs. Wilson’s eyes went wide and she pressed a hand to her chest in shock, but Mrs. Simmons only narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “I thought you said you were going to the zoo today,” she said, a hint of accusation in her tone.

More than a bit thrown by her mother’s response and unsure how to take it, Jemma glanced at Fitz again. There was a slight frown on his face but otherwise he appeared unconcerned. “I--I did,” she stammered, looking back to her mother. “But we ran into each other there, and it’s been rather a lot to take in.”

Mrs. Simmons looked between the two of them, obviously thinking, and after a pause seemed to come to a decision. She nodded once. “Well, now you really can marry him,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“Mum!” Jemma gasped, just as Fitz squawked in surprise. Feeling her cheeks burn with mortification, she dared to look at him. He was staring back at both her and her mother in alarm, clearly wondering what she was going on about. Wishing a hole would open up in the ground and swallow her, Jemma steeled herself to explain.

“My mum,” she said, unable to keep bitterness from creeping into her voice, “has told everyone she knows that you’re my husband so they won’t know that I had a child unmarried.”

Mrs. Simmons huffed, standing a little taller. “I had to!” she shot back defensively. “None of us would have heard the end of it if I hadn’t.”

Jemma had to bite her lip against the sting of hurt, angry tears. It was one thing to intellectually know her family was ashamed of her, but another entirely to hear it stated so plainly. And in front of Fitz, too! She could only imagine what he must be thinking, even if he was the one who had helped to put her in that position in the first place.

Trying to swallow down the lump of humiliation that had lodged in her throat, she said, “I am _so_ sorry we are such a burden and an embarrassment to you--”

Her mother’s shoulders went back. “I didn’t say it for us, I said it for--”

“Ladies!” Fitz had taken a step forward, his hands held out in a gesture meant to placate them both. He looked unhappy to have been caught in the middle of a family row, and Jemma knew another moment of intense distress that he was a witness to it all. “I am very, very sorry for any grief or pain that my absence has caused,” he said, contrite. “I’d like to do what I can to make it right.”

Jemma’s heart softened. He may have been gone from her life for the past year, but some things hadn’t changed: Fitz was still a good, decent man. Of course he wanted to smooth things over and make them better. She smiled slightly at him in spite of herself, and had just taken a step toward him when her mother spoke again.

“You can make things right by marrying my daughter.”

A hot rush of chagrin and indignance flashed through her, and one glance in his direction showed that Fitz’s cheeks had turned red. “ _Mum_!” Jemma shrieked. “He’s just found out he’s a father, you can’t be making demands of him like this!”

Mrs. Simmons’ face darkened, but then a disgruntled, thin wail broke the air, and they all looked to the pram. Jemma’s shouting had woken Ellie up, and her little face was twisted in displeasure, her hands bunched into fists. Jemma’s heart dropped.

“Oh, Ellie darling, no, I’m so sorry,” she said, taking a step toward the pram, upset that she’d made her daughter cry. But Mrs. Wilson, who had been watching the entire scene unfold in silence, beat her to it.

“I’ve got her, pet, don’t you worry,” she said kindly, reaching into the pram to pick Ellie up. The baby’s cries quieted a little as soon as the older woman had her in her arms, but she still fussed in frustration. Giving Jemma a reassuring smile, Mrs. Wilson turned and left the room. Ellie’s sniffles faded as they headed for the kitchen.

Jemma watched them go, then spared her mother one sharp, quelling glance before taking Fitz by the wrist and pulling him through the archway into the dining room. Satisfied that they were far enough away that they could expect a small modicum of privacy, she let go of him to wring her hands, looking up at him anxiously.

“Fitz,” she said quietly, trying to find her words, “I… I want you to understand that you’re under no obligation to us.” When his eyes widened and he opened his mouth to reply, she hurried to add, “It’s just that this has all been quite a shock, and I can’t imagine how you must feel. But we--we never made any promises to each other or anything like that, so… I would understand if--”

“Jemma.” Fitz had reached out to gently still her hands, though he quickly let go of them. His face was earnest, though, and his eyes sincere. “She’s my daughter. I _want_ to be involved.” Then he winced. “If you’ll allow it, of course.”

She gaped at him. “Of course I’ll allow it,” she replied immediately. “I would never keep Ellie from you.” She hadn’t even thought of it, and it never would have occurred to her. She wanted Ellie to know her father.

The line of his shoulders relaxed a little, and Fitz smiled at her. “Good.” Then his expression softened a little, turning more inquisitive. “Ellie?” he asked. “Is that--”

The sound of the front door to the house opening caught his attention, and he stopped speaking. Jemma would have been annoyed at him being interrupted again, except that it could only mean one thing: her father was home from his practice, and now she would have to explain Fitz’s reappearance all over again. She wilted, slumping as she tried to shore up her already frayed and fragile nerves in preparation of what could be another humiliating experience. Fitz looked at her in concern, but then her father strode into the sitting room.

He looked to be in good spirits, ready to launch into his customary rundown of how his day had gone, but paused when he saw the look his wife gave him. She’d taken a seat by the fireplace while Jemma and Fitz spoke, and at her husband’s arrival, nodded toward were they were standing in the dining room. He followed her gaze, and came up short when he saw the two of them standing together, looking like they’d been caught red-handed. “What’s going on here?” he asked.

Jemma took a deep breath and looked to Fitz, indicating that he should follow her. Then she walked slowly back into the sitting room, attempting to put on her most conciliatory face. “Dad,” she said, smiling weakly and gesturing to Fitz, “this is Leo Fitz. He’s Ellie’s father.”

Dr. Simmons looked sharply at Fitz, then at Jemma, then back to Fitz. He looked properly shocked, rather than upset or angry or eager to marry her off. After a moment, he turned to Jemma and said, blinking, “I thought you said he’d died in France.”

Next to her, Fitz shifted his weight a little awkwardly. Jemma inhaled and shook her head. “I did, but… I was wrong.” She gave her father another small, pale smile. “Turns out it was all just a horrible miscommunication.”

Which was putting it lightly. If she allowed herself time to think and actually reflect on just how tragic their level of misunderstanding had been, it was likely she would break down sobbing, and she simply couldn’t afford to do that.

Dr. Simmons pursed his lips, appearing to turn that information over in his head for a moment, before he suddenly smiled. “Well, it’s all turned out for the best in the end, finally, hasn’t it?” he said, reaching out to clap Fitz on the shoulder. “It’s good that you’re alive and well. What do you say to staying for dinner, so we can get to know you a bit better?”

Fitz, whose jaw had fallen open at the other man’s response, sputtered slightly. “Oh, I couldn’t ask you to stretch your rations for me,” he said humbly, shaking his head.

Dr. Simmons waved a hand, ignoring his wife, who looked like she agreed with Fitz. “It’s nothing, don’t think of it.”

“But I do,” Fitz insisted. “It’s very generous of you, but we’ve got so little to go on, still.” He glanced at Jemma. “Besides, I’ve got to be going--I have an appointment with my editor that I need to keep.”

Jemma had no idea if he was telling the truth or if he was just looking for a quick escape, but she could hardly blame him if he was. She’d upended his life in the space of a couple of hours and he was probably desperate to get away. She wasn’t eager to see him leave, though, fearful that once he did, she would never see him again.

Meanwhile, her father was shrugging amiably. “Just consider it, for another time,” he said. “You’d be a welcome guest. I know Jemma has missed you terribly.”

Fitz smiled hesitantly, looking at her; she ducked her head as she felt her cheeks warm with a blush. It was true, but she didn’t know if she’d been ready to admit it. She watched as Fitz said his slightly stilted and awkward goodbyes--how could they be anything else, given the circumstances?--and then she took him out into the entryway, toward the front door.

He craned his head as they walked, looking back toward the kitchen, obviously searching for any sign of Ellie. It made her heart patter. “I think Mrs. Wilson has probably taken her downstairs to feed her and put her down for a nap,” she explained. Seeing the way his face fell in obvious disappointment tugged at her heart even more, and she thought that maybe he really was interested in being a part of Ellie’s life, and wasn’t making up an excuse to leave.

Then they reached the door and Jemma opened it, letting Fitz out onto the stoop. He paused there, clearly reluctant to go, and looked up at her with an intense shine in his eyes. For a moment they stood in silence, caught up in all of the things they needed to say but couldn’t find the words for, all of the things missed between them that were now lost forever to time, all of the pain mixed up alongside the hopeful joy of having found each other again. For Jemma, it was a painful near-recreation of the morning he’d left her doorstep, except this time there weren’t smiles and kisses and a fond farewell, bubbling with the promise of something new--just uncertainty and bittersweet regret.

“Can I visit again?” Fitz asked softly, just when the quiet had started to feel too long. “Tomorrow, or maybe Saturday?”

Jemma nodded, hoping she didn’t look too eager, though she very much was. “Of course,” she replied. “Maybe we can actually have tea, and you--you can spend some time with Ellie.”

“I’d like that.” He smiled, a little shyly, and she wanted to imprint the image onto her mind. Then they fell into silence once more, Jemma hesitant to step away and let him go, and Fitz still unwilling to leave. Finally, he laughed quietly and scuffed the toe of his shoe against the concrete of the stoop. “I don’t know how to leave a situation like this,” he confessed.

That got a genuine laugh out of Jemma in return, even as her heart ached with the weight of everything she wanted to tell him. “I don’t either,” she said.

He smiled, then inhaled and let it out slowly. “I suppose I’ll just tell you goodbye, then.” Then he seemed to think better of it, even as her stomach flipped sourly. “Not goodbye--good evening.” He smiled again and took a step away. “I’ll see you soon, Jemma.”

“Yes, soon,” Jemma repeated, physically unable to tell him goodbye. It had perhaps irrationally frightened her when he’d said it. “Goodnight, Fitz.”

Fitz nodded, then turned and walked down the steps and onto the pavement, headed for the corner of Regent’s Park Road. Jemma watched him go, still feeling like it was an eerie reenactment of the last time she’d seen him, her heart beating sharply in her chest and hoping dearly that it wouldn’t be another year before she saw him again. When he reached the corner he paused and looked back, just like he’d done so long ago, and when he saw that she was still standing at the door, he raised a hand in farewell. She waved back at him, already feeling the emotions of the day collapsing in on her, and then he disappeared around the corner, gone from her sight again.

-:-

As soon as Fitz was back inside the safety of his small flat, he collapsed on the edge of his bed and buried his face in his hands, feeling utterly exhausted. He’d barely heard a word his editor had said to him during their entire meeting. His brain had been far too preoccupied screaming one word at him, over and over: _Jemma. Jemma. Jemma_. And, even louder than that, was _ELEANOR._

He still couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He’d long given up all hope of ever hearing from Jemma again, had shut the door on that part of his life, only to run into her by pure chance while out on a lark at the zoo. And if hearing she’d thought him dead for over a year hadn’t been upsetting enough, she’d told him that the beautiful baby sleeping in the pram next to her was his. His daughter. _His_ child.

Sighing, he dragged his hands off his face and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. Finding Jemma again and learning he had a daughter had been both miraculous and frightening in ways he couldn’t even begin to express, but at the moment, all he felt was utter misery. He’d once swore to himself that he would never be like his father and abandon his family, but it turned out that was exactly what he had done, however unwittingly. If only he hadn’t been such an insecure git and written Jemma another letter, this entire situation could have been avoided. He could’ve been there. He could have done the right thing and married her, instead of leaving her alone to be shamed by her own family.

Fitz sighed again before pushing up to stand and trudging in the direction of his tiny kitchen to see about dinner. He had no idea where things were going to go from here, but there was one thing he knew for certain: his mum was absolutely going to kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, don't forget to check out the chapter illustration on my Tumblr, eclecticmuses!


	6. Chapter 6

Jemma was in the middle of Ellie’s early afternoon meal in the dining room on Saturday when the doorbell rang. She instantly perked up, as did her mother’s friends from the WVS all gathered in the sitting room--though she was willing to bet that their pulse hadn’t sped up the way hers had. She hoped it was Fitz, making good on his promise to visit. She’d been disappointed and even afraid when Friday had gone by without a word from him, worried that he would never come back, but perhaps he’d just been busy with work--assuming he still wrote for the _Telegraph_ , that is. He’d mentioned an editor, but not what he was doing for them.

She heard Mrs. Wilson bustle into the entryway from the kitchen, followed a second later by the sound of the front door opening and the quiet murmur of voices. She looked at Ellie, who was secure in her high chair and grasping at her bottle with both hands as she drank, then turned back to the sitting room door just as Fitz appeared.

Her heart leapt as he smiled and nodded a greeting at her mother’s assembled group, then looked around, clearly searching for her. When he saw her through the archway, sitting at the dining room table next to Ellie’s high chair, his face lit up in a way that managed to be both shy and eager, and she felt her heart flutter for him again.

He’d just started toward her when one of her mother’s friends called out from the sitting room. “Jemma, dear, aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”

Jemma’s smile slipped from her face, and she looked up at Fitz, who had frozen with his back to the other women. His eyes were wide in alarm, and she knew what he was likely thinking: that her mother had told them that Jemma had a husband who had died--but they were very much _not_ actually married, in reality. And of course, her mother’s friends were wondering who this gentleman caller was, so soon after she’d lost her imaginary husband. Jemma panicked silently for a moment, unsure what to say, until her mother spoke up for her.

“We’ve had rather a shock,” she said, setting her knitting down in her lap. “This is Jemma’s husband, Leo. Turns out he’s safe and sound after all.”

All of the women burst into excited chatter, exclaiming happily over their good fortune, but Jemma thought she saw a flash of irritation cross Fitz’s face as he turned toward them. Checking to make sure Ellie had a good hold on her bottle, she stood to go join him.

“Oh, you must be so thrilled, Jemma,” one of the ladies, Mrs. Miller, gushed. Another, Mrs. Hughes, said, “I can only imagine how happy you are to have him home. What _happened_?”

Fitz and Jemma exchanged a slightly uncomfortable look. She was at a loss to come up with a believable story that wouldn’t expose her mother’s tale for a sham. Her mother, however, charged smoothly ahead.

“There was a terrible mixup at the War Office,” she said. “They sent her the telegram by mistake. He was alive and well the whole time, and he’s only just returned from Germany.”

The ladies started talking over each other again, wondering how such an awful error could have occurred, lamenting the unnecessary grief Jemma had gone through, but delighting in how fortunate it was that Ellie hadn’t lost her father. Jemma was mortified, feeling like an imposter; she couldn’t help but wonder if her mother had practiced this new part to her lie overnight, it sounded so natural and even coming from her lips. For his part, Fitz’s cheeks were a little pink, but he seemed to be handling the attention gracefully. Thinking that perhaps she ought to look a little more like a wife ecstatic that her husband was home, she reached up to lightly curl her hands around Fitz’s arm just above the elbow. He looked at her, his face unreadable, and she gave him a small, tentative smile. He smiled back, and laid a hand over hers.

“Oh!” Mrs. Hughes exclaimed. “Where’s your ring?”

Fitz turned away from Jemma to look at the older woman and blinked. “Pardon?”

“Your ring,” she repeated, nodding at Jemma’s hand, just visible beneath Fitz’s, which was bare. “What happened to it?”

Jemma blanched, realizing the focus was on her. “Oh, um--” Then she glanced aside at Fitz. “It’s, um--my fingers, the ring didn’t fit anymore after I was pregnant,” she explained lamely, hoping her slapdash lie would fly. “I’ve got it on a chain upstairs.”

Mrs. Hughes clucked sympathetically. “Oh, that’s a shame. I remember my own ring not fitting well. I hope you can get a replacement. Jewelry can be so hard to come by these days, but hopefully with the war over now, it won’t be as difficult.”

“We’ll manage,” Jemma said, her throat feeling dry. A clatter caught her attention; she turned to look behind her and saw that Ellie had knocked her bottle down to the tray of her high chair and now it was out of her reach. She was straining for it, her little hands outstretched and grasping. Seeing an opportunity for escape, she gently squeezed Fitz’s arm. “Come on,” she said quietly.

She turned to lead him back into the dining room, and the ladies resumed their knitting and their conversation, though now it was all about the two of them. Jemma was sure her mother would come up with more fabrications, but at the moment she didn’t want to think about it anymore.

Reaching Ellie, Jemma sat down and picked up her half-finished bottle from the tray to hand it back to her, smiling as she watched her fumble to get a good hold on it before determinedly sticking the rubber nipple in her mouth and going back to drinking. On her other side, Fitz pulled over a chair so he could sit closer to them, and watched Ellie eat in silence for a moment.

“She has blue eyes,” he noted quietly, a hint of wonder in his voice. “Just like me.”

Jemma smiled at him, feeling a bittersweet tug in her heart as he acquainted himself with his daughter for the first time. “Just like you,” she confirmed softly, looking between them and seeing that indeed, their eyes were the same shade of brilliant, crystal-clear blue. Her memory had served her correctly.

“But your hair,” he added, nodding at the dark shade of Ellie’s curls.

Her smile grew. “Oh, I don’t know,” she mused, reaching out to gently tip up the bottom of Ellie’s bottle and help her along. “It’s got a bit of curl to it on the ends.” She briefly lifted her hand to trace over a wisp of her daughter’s hair before returning it to the bottle. “That’s all you.”

Fitz huffed out a soft laugh. “You may be right.” He fell silent for a moment, still watching her eat, before he asked, “When’s her birthday?”

It hurt in a way Jemma didn’t expect to hear him ask, that he didn’t know his own daughter’s birthday, but how could he? He hadn’t been present for any of it. It wasn’t his fault. But he wanted to learn, and that was good. “February 5th,” she replied.

Fitz nodded, and his eyes took on a faraway, distant look, the line of his jaw going tight, as if he were remembering something. Then it passed, and he looked at Ellie again. “So, she’s just over five months old,” he said, and there was a sadness to his voice that she thought hinted at regret for all of that time missed. He carefully trailed a finger over her chubby leg, and Ellie responded by kicking a little. It made him smile as he looked back up at Jemma. “She’s beautiful.”

Jemma smiled in return. “Thank you,” she murmured, then ducked her head, feeling a little silly. She’d had help in creating Ellie, after all, from him--he was equally responsible for their daughter being beautiful. But it had felt like the right thing to say, and there was no taking it back now.

Fortunately, Fitz didn’t seem to notice her awkwardness. Instead, watching Ellie with a smile still on his face, he said, “How did you pick her name?”

“Oh!” This was something good Jemma could focus on and easily answer without feeling like her heart might painfully twist under the strain of their circumstances. She straightened up in her seat a bit. “I named her for Eleanor of Aquitaine--a good, strong, fascinating woman and queen of both England and France, an homage to both my home and my love of the French language,” she explained. “And Anne comes from both me and my grandmother.”

Fitz nodded. “Ah, I see. Well, I think you chose well. It suits her.” He turned his smile on her, and Jemma felt her chest pulse with warmth. “You call her Ellie, for short?”

“Yes.” It was Jemma’s turn to nod. “It started right after we brought her home. It was mostly a silly baby talk thing on my part, really, when it was just the two of us, but it stuck.” She laughed shortly. “I suppose I can save ‘Eleanor’ for when she’s older and in a spot of trouble.”  

Fitz’s smile widened. “It does sound more severe,” he agreed, a bit of a sparkle in his eye. Then he gestured to Ellie’s bottle, which was nearly empty. “She seems to be eating well. That’s good, yeah? And she’s barely made a peep.”

That made Jemma flush with pride, the maternal instinct to extoll her baby’s virtues rising to the fore. “She’s a happy baby,” she said, brushing her hand over the crown of Ellie’s head as she continued to suck on her bottle. “Very much so. She’s easy to care for, she hardly ever cries.” She smiled at him. “Apparently, that means she takes a lot after me.”

“Better you than me.” Fitz’s grin widened enough that it made his eyes crinkle at the corners, and it made Jemma think of how he’d looked when they’d spent hours talking at Rainbow Corner, about everything that came to their mind. “I had colic as a baby, according to my mum. Gave her fits and drove her mad.”

Jemma laughed, trying to imagine Fitz squalling as a child, and his poor mother doing anything she could to try and soothe him. She did feel very fortunate that Ellie was an easygoing baby because it made things so much simpler for her, but mostly she was feeling giddy over the fact that she finally knew something about Fitz’s childhood that she could compare and contrast to their daughter.

Next to her, Fitz sobered, and when he looked at her again, his eyes were serious. “And how have _you_ been doing, all this time?” he asked quietly.

She instantly felt like a large rock had settled in her chest, and she looked down, swallowing. She didn’t know how to tell him about the loneliness and the sadness that had pervaded her life since she’d returned to London, or if she even could. She wasn’t sure if she could admit how much she’d missed him and longed for him, but how little she knew what to do with her feelings now that he was back. Shooting a glance in her mother’s direction--she was still chatting gaily with her friends, knitting away--she said softly, “I’m fine.” When Fitz just raised his eyebrows at her, she sighed and added, “I’m very grateful for my parents. I don’t know what I would have done if they hadn’t taken me back in. They--they’ve been very accommodating.”

For some reason, this only made Fitz press his lips together and look down as well, a contemplative look on his face. Jemma looked at Ellie and, seeing that she’d finished her bottle and was sucking on empty air, gently took it away from her. She didn’t make a fuss; she simply watched her mother stand with wide blue eyes, patting at the tray of her chair with one hand. “I’ll be right back,” Jemma told Fitz quietly, and took the bottle to rinse out and set aside for proper cleaning later.

When she returned, Fitz was watching Ellie make sweeping motions across her tray with a small smile on his face. “Come on,” she said, smiling too as she reached out to pull the tray loose from the chair. “Let’s get this one downstairs for a nap.”

She set the tray aside on the table and picked Ellie up, settling her on her hip. Ellie reached out for her hair, but Jemma gently batted her hand away, then turned so she could see Fitz. He stood from his seat and smiled at her as he moved the chair back to its previous position, then followed Jemma out of the dining room and sitting room down the stairs to the lower ground floor of the house.

Ellie’s pram was outside in the back garden, where she’d had her morning nap. Fitz watched, looking a little lost with his hands on his hips, as Jemma paced slowly back and forth in front of it, gently patting Ellie’s back to make sure she was burped. When she was satisfied that her daughter would be able to rest comfortably, she went to the pram and bent over to carefully lower Ellie down into it. Fitz came closer to observe, studying how Jemma laid Ellie on her back and tucked a light blanket over her kicking feet.

“She really doesn’t fuss, does she?” he asked as Jemma raised the hood so the sun wouldn’t shine directly on her. Jemma shook her head, smiling down at her daughter as she grasped the edge of the blanket in one small hand, looking up out of the pram with sleepy eyes.

“Not much, no,” she replied, stepping away from the pram to give Ellie a bit more quiet.

Fitz followed her, though he looked back at the pram once. “And she’ll sleep, just like that?”

“Eventually. She’ll stay awake for a little while, but she’s on a full stomach now, so it won’t be long before she’s asleep.”

He nodded, absorbing that, and then turned to her, his expression becoming a little more serious. “Actually, I’m glad we’ve got a moment alone.” When she tilted her head at him, one eyebrow raising, his cheeks flushed. “Not--I mean, no,” he spluttered, “not for anything like--it’s just--I wanted to talk to you. Privately.”

“Alright,” said Jemma softly, encouragingly. Fitz had ducked his head and was twisting his hands together, looking hesitant, and she wanted to reassure him.

He licked his lips and pressed one of his thumbs into the other palm. “Jemma,” he said, “I know this is all very sudden, for the both of us, but--I want to do right by you, so…” He took in a deep breath and straightened, looking her in the eye. “Will you marry me?”

Jemma’s mouth fell open as a mix of emotions crashed over her all at once: shock, surprise, hope, but most of all, dismay. “Fitz,” she breathed, struggling to keep her composure, “I--I don’t want you to feel like you have any sort of obligation to us, or a duty--”

“But I do!” Fitz stepped forward and took her hands in his own, his face earnest. “I _do_ have a duty. I know I told you once that it was just me and my mum when I was young. But, there’s more to it. See… my father, he abandoned us. Left us completely out in the cold. We had to move in with my gran and granda just to survive.” He squeezed her hands. “I don’t want to do that to you and Ellie… even though I already have, in a way.”

Gazing up at him, Jemma’s heart twisted with sadness. Suddenly, his anguish at the zoo made a lot more sense. He thought he’d deserted them the same way his father had left him. But that didn’t change the fact that it sounded like he was asking her to marry him out of guilt and necessity, and that was the last thing she wanted. “Fitz,” she tried again, “I promise you, we’re fine. You don’t have to tie yourself to us just because you feel like you have to--”

“I _want_ to marry you,” he cut in, squeezing her hands again. When she just stared at him, stunned, he let out a shuddery breath and briefly looked away. “The letters you sent me before I left for France meant a lot,” he continued, quieter. “And we got on well, didn’t we?” He returned his gaze to her, and his eyes were shining, almost pleading. “I know this isn’t the sort of marriage proposal you deserve. You--you deserve flowers and romance and the whole world, but--I can’t offer you much, but I _can_ promise that you’ll be taken care of, and Ellie will always have a father who loves her.”

Jemma found herself gripping his hands tightly as tears sprung to her eyes, feeling overwhelmed by Fitz’s words and the emotions they’d inspired. The part of her that had fallen so quickly for him over a year ago and still dreamt of a family for them wanted desperately to say yes. But she’d spent so long grieving him on her own; she was different now. She’d changed. And she was still in shock from discovering he was alive. Her feelings were all a jumbled mess, and surely his were too. Beyond that, everything was backwards. A proposal should have come first, _then_ a baby. She didn’t know where to start processing it all.

“I--I need some time to think,” she finally said wetly, looking down.

“Oh. Right. Right, of course.” Fitz instantly let go of her hands, taking a step back, and she wished he hadn’t; it left her unmoored and faltering. “Take all the time you need.” Disappointment was clear on his face, but he was doing his best to hide it. “I’ll just, um… I’ll see myself out, yeah?”

She watched him back away and turn to leave, feeling unsteady, until a sudden thought occurred to her. “Fitz, wait,” she called, putting a hand out toward him. When he turned to face her, hope written in his eyes, she said, “I… I’ve just realized I haven’t asked anything about _you_. Where you live or what you’re doing or where I can find you.”

Fitz smiled at her, soft and a little sad. “I’ve got a flat at Queen Court, on Queen Square right next to the Great Ormond Street Hospital.”

Jemma bit her lip. “That’s not terribly far away.”

He shook his head. “Not far at all.” He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but thought better of it; after a pause, he simply said, “I’ll see you soon?”

She nodded, feeling her stomach churn. “Yes. Soon.”

Giving her one last small smile Fitz turned and went back inside the house, heading for the stairs.

She stood where she was for a long moment, lost in her thoughts and emotions, before turning and slowly going to sit on a nearby bench. She had so much to think about and consider now--not just for her, but for Ellie as well. She’d been given the opportunity to leave her parents’ house and become the family she’d longed for all this time--but it wasn’t that simple. It couldn’t be. She wasn’t sure if she fully trusted Fitz’s motives or if she could even be sure of her own desires. She didn’t want to make any quick decisions that could hurt either of them in the long run--especially with Ellie involved.

She was still sitting there, staring off into the middle distance, several minutes later when her mother came bustling outside. “What are you doing out here?” she asked. “Why did Leo leave so quickly?”

Faintly, Jemma thought that she would have to impress upon her mother that Fitz preferred to go by his last name. In the moment, however, she just looked at her, a bit numb, and said, “He asked me to marry him.”

Mrs. Simmons gasped. “Did he?!” she cried, pressing a hand to her chest. “Oh, Jemma! You said yes, didn’t you?”

Something like guilt, or maybe frustration--it was hard to tell--wormed its way through her chest. “No, I--I told him I needed time to think about it.”

Her mother gasped again, but this time she goggled at Jemma, her hand falling back to her side. “What is there to think about?” she demanded, her tone transformed from delight to reproach. “He’s Eleanor’s father, and he’s ready to support the both of you. You’ll be able to leave this house!”

Jemma looked down at her lap, chagrined. She knew her mother likely didn’t mean her words the way they had come across, but once more it sounded as if she was eager for Jemma and Ellie to leave, like she considered them a burden and a shame. And while her father hadn’t been outright hostile to them and had even extended that dinner invitation to Fitz, he’d still been somewhat remote and distant ever since she’d come home. It hurt, knowing her parents likely thought badly of her, but she didn’t know what she could do to change their opinions.

“I just don’t want him to marry me out of a sense of duty,” she said, looking back up at her mother. “That’s all.”

“He does have a duty,” Mrs. Simmons said sharply, crossing her arms, “and he should marry you because of it. He put you in this situation, he can very well take responsibility for it.”

Jemma looked away, feeling the threat of tears again. All she could think of was a faded night filled with smiles and laughter and breathless kisses that had turned into shy, seeking hands. It had all been so innocent compared to the stark reality of the present. If she could go back in time, she wondered if she would warn their younger selves against what would come.

But then she wouldn’t have Ellie now, and she didn’t think she was willing to give her daughter up, not even to save herself a world of pain and heartbreak.

“I have a lot to think about,” she said quietly, folding her hands together.

Her mother watched her for a moment before sniffing and turning around to go silently back into the house, leaving her alone with her thoughts and Ellie, sleeping in her pram.

-:-

Late the next night, as she laid in her bed trying to sleep, Jemma’s mind was still running over Fitz’s marriage proposal, listing all of the pros and cons in columns to consider. She liked him; that much was still true. She liked him a lot, and she was ecstatic that he was still alive, not just for Ellie’s sake but for her own as well. She also believed he was being completely truthful when he said he really did want to marry her--something which was a little frightening to consider, because it spoke to a level of feeling she hadn’t expected, but she was determined to set that aside for the moment. She was just worried that even if his intentions were good and pure, Fitz was still shackling himself to her out of obligation.

And then there was her--perhaps naive--wish to marry for love. She’d never given marriage much thought before she’d met Fitz, but she’d always known she didn’t want to marry for money or social status or because it was expected and her parents wanted her to. She wanted to find someone who appreciated her for who she was, who she could build a life with. She didn’t want to get married because she _had_ to. Fitz asking her to marry him just because they had a child together felt an awful lot like doing that.

But didn’t he respect her? And hadn’t she felt that she could have loved him, given enough time? It was all she had thought about during those long months where she’d missed him and mourned and wished that her life had worked out any other way. She was being granted that chance now; she supposed she was just afraid of letting her guard down. Fitz was a good man, though--he’d long since proven that to her--and he wanted to be a part of Ellie’s life, proving it even more. She could still love him, just for that alone.

She could still love him for herself, too.

Maybe she could still have everything she’d wanted: their family, together and whole, with a husband who loved her and who she wholeheartedly loved too. It wouldn’t happen overnight, but it would come in time and they could work toward it alongside each other.

Once she actually stopped to think things through and remember what she actually felt without letting her fears get the best of her, perhaps the decision wasn’t such a difficult one after all.

-:-

The next afternoon, Jemma went to go see Fitz. She didn’t know if he was still working for the _Telegraph_ , but she allowed him enough time to reasonably get home at the end of the standard workday before she hopped on the Underground to go to Queen Court. It was a very short walk from the Russell Square station, and as she entered Queen Square she found that the building she was looking for was a handsome seven-story, red brick Art Deco structure on the corner. Going in the double doors on the ground floor, it didn’t take her long to find the post boxes and locate Fitz’s, noting his flat number on the fifth floor. Then she took the lift up and, with a certain amount of trepidation, rang the bell.

She heard the sound of the lock sliding a moment later, and then Fitz opened the door, dressed in just his shirtsleeves and braces. When he saw it was her, his face lit up. “Jemma!” he cried, sounding genuinely surprised. “Hello!”

Jemma bit back a small smile; he was reminding of her just how adorable he could be. “Hello, Fitz,” she replied. “May I come in?”

“Oh--yes, yes of course,” he said, and stood back to open the door wider and let her pass through. She came inside, looking around and taking in what looked to be a small but neat studio flat--to the left through a set of open glass-paned doors there were two armchairs by the window next to a writing desk piled high with papers and books, a short bookshelf with even more books crammed in, and a small bed tucked in a nook half-hidden by a screen, with a wardrobe and dresser standing next to it. Looking to the right, she saw a door leading into a tiny kitchen, and another that she could only assume belonged to the bathroom.

“I’m sorry, I don’t really have much in the way for entertaining,” Fitz explained as he closed the door behind her. “But I can make you a cup of tea if you like.”

Jemma shook her head, letting her smile blossom a little. “Thank you, but I’m fine.” She looked up at him, feeling a nervous flutter in her stomach. “Actually--I wanted to talk to you about what you asked me the other day.”

Fitz’s expression shuttered closed, a mask of feigned casualness falling over him. “Oh,” he said lightly, going to lean against the wall and then thinking better of it. He tucked his hands into his trouser pockets instead. “Yes?”

He looked just as nervous as she felt despite his attempts to hide it, and it was that which reassured Jemma more than anything else. “Well, I’ve done my thinking,” she began, and she saw his throat visibly bob. “You were right about some things. A lot of things. And I want Ellie to have her father, so… yes.”

Fitz’s lips parted as he blinked at her. “Yes?” he repeated.

Jemma nodded, letting herself smile again. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”

His face lit up again, a wide smile breaking over his face, and he took a half-step forward, but then stopped and tried to compose himself, like he didn’t want to seem overeager. “You will?” he said, but the happiness in his voice gave him away. All of it reminded her of how easy it had been for her to fall for him in the first place. “That’s--oh, that’s brilliant. _Jemma_.” He reached out to take one of her hands in both of his, squeezing it tight. “I can’t believe…”

She couldn’t keep her smile from widening at his clear joy and pleasure that she’d accepted his proposal, an excited flush rolling through her; it was infectious. She was going to marry Fitz and they were going to be a family, just like she’d wanted. Everything would be alright.

Still beaming, Fitz stroked his thumb over her knuckles. “Are you free this evening?” he asked. “Do you have to go home for Ellie?”

Jemma shook her head. “No, I have a few hours to myself. My mum is watching her.”

“Can I take you out for dinner?” His eyes were bright, his expression hopeful. “I think we’ve earned the right to celebrate a little.”

She considered how backwards and out of order and absurd it was that she had just accepted Fitz’s proposal of marriage, and now he was asking permission to take her out. Their first date, she realized. It was a year late, but they were finally getting around to that dinner date he’d suggested in his last letter to her. The thought made her smile, even as it tugged a little painfully at her heart--a feeling she was getting used to now that he was back in her life.

“I would love to have dinner with you,” she said sincerely, and curled her fingers a little tighter around his. “Where would you like to go?”

Fitz finally released her hand, and tapped a finger against his chin as he thought for a moment. “It’s a little bit of a walk,” he said at length. “Or we could take the Tube, but I don’t really think it will get us there that much quicker.”

“Let’s walk.” Jemma smiled winsomely at him. “It’s a lovely evening out, it’ll be nice.”

Fitz nodded, the matter settled. “Right. Let me just grab a jumper, and we can go.”

A few short minutes later found them strolling down the pavement outside, leaving the shade of the trees that ringed Queen Square and heading down a narrower street bordered by terraced houses on one side and a church on the other. Fitz had offered her his arm to take, just like he’d done the night they’d first met, and Jemma had happily accepted it, letting her hand rest in the crook of his elbow and thinking of happier times. Hopefully this would be the start of a happy memory as well--or an entirely new, happy chapter of her life.

“Did you have any trouble finding the building?” Fitz asked as they walked.

“No, not at all,” she replied lightly, looking up at the arched windows of the church as they passed. “It was just a hop and a skip on the Tube.” He nodded, and she gave his arm a small squeeze. “But, Fitz, I have so many questions. About everything that’s happened while we’ve been apart--what you’ve done, what you’ve seen, what you’re doing now. I want to know everything.”

He glanced aside at her and shrugged gamely. “I probably have just as many questions for you. Now’s as good a time as any to start, I guess.”

Jemma exhaled, tightening her grasp on his arm slightly as she marshaled her thoughts. “Right. Did you stay with the Army through the end of the war?” she asked, looking back up at him.

Fitz nodded as they came to the end of the street, steering them to the right onto a slightly larger, busier road. “I did,” he replied, then bit his lip. “I came home just after victory was declared.”

“Oh.” She parsed that for a moment, a little confused. “Did you just take pictures, then?” When Fitz frowned at her, she added, “See, I read the _Telegraph_ every day, hoping to see your stories or find any evidence that you were still alive, but all I saw were articles from a man named James Smith.”

Fitz choked, stumbling slightly over his own feet, and Jemma looked at him in alarm as she brought her other hand up to help steady him. “What?” she said, looking searchingly up into his face. “What is it?”

He coughed once to clear his throat, then looked at her with large, distressed eyes. “ _I’m_ James Smith.”

Jemma came to a halt in the middle of the pavement, stopping him along with her. “What?!”

Fitz sighed and shook his head. “The paper has me write under a pseudonym,” he explained apologetically. “They feel like my real name sounds too German.”

She gaped at him. “But--that means, the entire time--”

“All of those stories, and the photographs, were from me. I can’t believe I didn’t think to tell you...”

A memory resurfaced then, of Fitz’s friends at Rainbow Corner teasing him for having a German name. And then she thought of all the stories she’d read, so many of them, that painted pictures of the struggle to stay alive and keep up morale while under siege, of the often bleak conditions the soldiers toiled in while fighting to defeat the Nazis. She’d been under no illusions that he would have an easy life while at the front, but she still couldn’t believe he’d lived through all of that.

“Oh, Fitz,” she said quietly. “Your stories, your pictures--they were so amazing, and so candid… but so sad, too. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to go through it all.”

Fitz shrugged, a little awkwardly this time, and started walking again, gently pulling her along to keep them from blocking the flow of the other pedestrians on the pavement. “I was only doing my duty to tell the honest truth,” he replied, his voice quiet too.

“Still,” she pressed, thinking he was just being humble, “it must have been quite an experience.”

He swallowed and looked down. “It was.”

The shortness of his answer and the tilt of his head, along with the way he’d pressed his lips together, told Jemma that he actually didn’t want to discuss it at all. That only raised a whole new host of questions for her--what exactly had happened to make him so reticent, was it something he’d already written about--but the last thing she wanted to do was make him upset and uncomfortable, so she cast about to change the subject.

“So you’re still writing for the _Telegraph_ , then,” she said after a moment, looking up at him. He nodded once. “What do they have you write about now, now that you’re home?”

They came to a wide crosswalk spanning a busy intersection, and Fitz lifted his head to look out at all of the vehicles crossing the road while they waited for the policeman on duty there to indicate it was safe to cross. The lines of his face didn’t look as tense as they had just a moment ago. “Well,” he said, “at first, the paper was interested in using the rapport I’d built with the men to keep me with them. There was talk of sending them to the Pacific, and my bosses thought there would be some interest in firsthand accounts of the war effort there. But I convinced them to let me come home. I was ready.” He gave her a small smile. “Good thing I did.”

The policeman signaled for them to go, and Jemma fought the urge to cling to his arm tighter as they hurried over the crosswalk. The thought of Fitz being sent halfway across the world was a terrible one, and not just because it meant they might never have found one another again. She, too, was glad he’d convinced his superiors to let him come home.

“Now I’m just reporting on rebuilding efforts across the city,” he continued once they were back on the pavement. “Now that the war’s officially over, and all. And I’ve done a few stories on the men coming home. That’s it, so far.”

“Is that what you want to write about?” Jemma asked, curious. “I imagine that’s a bit of a change from what you’re used to.”

Fitz inclined his head. “It is. But it pays my rent. What I’d _like_ to write about… well, I had dreams of writing a novel, once. I think I told you about that.”

“You did.” Jemma smiled, recalling everything he’d told her about the story he’d planned. She remembered everything about those conversations; they were indelibly imprinted upon her memory. “Do you still want to write about that man stranded on a faraway planet?”

A smile spread over his face, a real, genuine one, and he looked at her like he couldn’t quite believe she actually remembered the details he’d told her. “Maybe,” he replied. “I might. But I also feel like I want to write about something a little closer to home, now. I have a few ideas I’m thinking over.”

He told her about some of them as they crossed another busy intersection and started down a quieter, narrow street. Many of the buildings to their left side had been heavily damaged by bombing during the war; in fact, most of them had already been cleared out and leveled for rebuilding. The structures on their right looked like they had seen a good bit of wear and tear too, but they were mostly intact. Fitz led her to a small shop at the end of the street which had plywood covering one missing window, but was still brightly lit from inside and had the doors open wide to welcome visitors. Several benches and tables were lined up on the pavement outside, sheltered by large umbrellas, and a few couples were scattered amongst them, chatting as they ate. It was a spot of cheerfulness on an otherwise battered street, and it made Jemma smile. Here was a small snapshot of British resilience in the face of enduring struggle, and it lifted her spirits to see.

As they drew closer, she saw the sign that hung above the open doors, proclaiming that the shop was a chippie. Fitz glanced at her as he dropped his arm, letting go of her to place a light hand at the small of her back as she went inside ahead of him. “I know it’s not much,” he said, a little ruefully. “Just fish and chips. But it’s actually very good. Don’t worry, I can take you someplace nicer next time, when we have a little more time to plan.”

Jemma’s smile widened as a pleased flush colored her cheeks--he was already thinking ahead to future dates. “It’s fine,” she assured him, turning and placing a light hand on his arm. “It’s been a while since I’ve had good fish and chips.”

Fitz looked relieved that she was okay with his choice of establishment, and smiled back at her before going to the counter to order their food. It wasn’t long before they were back outside and seated at one of the tables, each with a basket of fried fish and chips along with a tall glass of water.

“You’ll really like these chips,” he said, grinning as he sprinkled malt vinegar over both them and his fish. “I don’t know what it is that they do different, but something about them is just _better_.”

Jemma picked one up to pop in her mouth and found that he was right. The saltiness and the light crisp of the chip was perfect, and she made a noise of appreciation as she chewed. “They are good,” she agreed as she swallowed, and reached for the vinegar.

Fitz nudged it toward her. “See? And the fish is even better.” He picked his up, then licked his lips. “Would you, um… do you mind telling me a bit more about Ellie? What she’s like.” His expression was hopeful. “I feel like I have so much to catch up on.”

Jemma’s heart melted at his eagerness to learn more about his daughter. She had all sorts of stories to tell, from the first time Ellie laughed at something to her first forays into solid foods, which hadn’t been all that long ago. She told Fitz about the ways Ellie seemed to just take in the world with her large, inquisitive eyes, absorbing everything around her, making Jemma wonder what exactly was going on inside her little baby head. She recounted all the times their daughter had fallen asleep in her lap while drinking her bottle, looking so sweet and serene, and how it made her heart fill with love. Fitz listened to it all with something that looked like bittersweet rapture, as though he wanted to soak up every detail of the things he had missed.

When she was through, they found themselves trading stories about their own childhoods. Fitz told her about growing up poor in Glasgow, reading any book he could get his hands on, and how his mother had worked herself to the bone so he didn’t have to quit school and go to work himself. Jemma felt a little self-conscious telling him about her more fortunate upbringing, but he seemed to genuinely enjoy hearing about the holidays her family had taken to the countryside and the little telescope her father had bought for her birthday one year so she could look at the stars from their back garden.

They talked straight through dinner, past when their baskets were empty, just as easily as they’d done the night they first met. It made a warm glow settle in Jemma’s chest, a happiness and hope growing for their future together. Time may have passed and they may have both changed in some ways as individuals, but they still got on just as well as they originally had. It spoke well for their prospects together. Maybe all of the worries and concerns she’d had about marrying him were completely unfounded.

After they finally binned their rubbish and decided to leave, Fitz let her take his arm again and walked her toward the Covent Garden Underground station. “We should probably find some time to talk about, um, wedding plans,” he said as they ambled slowly down the street, taking their time. The sun had set, and the street lamps and storefronts were lit; it was taking some getting used to, seeing the city bright at night again.

Jemma nodded and sighed. “I imagine there won’t be a church wedding, since my mum has already told everyone that we’re already married. It wouldn’t do for her to put an announcement in the paper and have them ask questions.” She glanced up at him. “I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

Fitz just laughed. “My mum will probably be, but I’m not. I’ll be happy to marry you anywhere.”

She bit her lip, looking away to hide a pleased blush. He was far too sweet.

“Can I come see you on Saturday?” he asked, oblivious to her pink cheeks. “After breakfast, maybe? We can talk some more about it, and make some real plans. I’d like to see Ellie, too.” He looked down at her and touched his free hand to hers, resting in the crook of his elbow. “And you as well, of course.”

Jemma smiled at him. “Of course you can. I’d love to see you. And we _do_ need to discuss arrangements.”

Fitz beamed, like her saying she wanted to see him was the best compliment he’d been paid all week, and his happiness kept her feeling light and weightless all the way to the Underground station.

Their ride together was short, only making one stop before Fitz had to get off at Russell Square. He squeezed her hand before he stood to exit the carriage, and looked back to give her a smile. “I’ll see you soon, Jemma. Thanks for nice evening.” Then he was gone, out of the carriage and onto the platform, disappearing up the steps to the street.

Jemma watched him go, a small smile playing on her face, her mind already replaying the best parts of their date over in her head. She couldn’t wait for Saturday to come.

-:-

The next afternoon after work, Fitz went to the post office near his flat to make a trunk call. He would have preferred to write, but the news he had wasn’t really the sort of thing to relay in an impartial letter. His mum was going to have a fit regardless, so it was probably best to just get it out of the way quickly.

He was relieved to find the phone booth unoccupied and slid into the little seat inside to put some coins into the slots and make the call. He spoke to the operator, giving the request to call the post office nearest to his mum’s flat in Glasgow, then sat back while he listened to the operators make the connections to put him through. When the post office finally picked up on the other end, he said he wanted to place a call to Margaret Fitz and gave her address. The postmaster said he would send someone out right away and get back to him as soon as possible.

Fitz hung up the phone and exhaled, trying to calm his jittery nerves and get his thoughts in order. He’d have a short while before his mum would call back, and he could use the wait to go over what he would say in the short time allotted to them.

She wasn’t going to be happy, he knew that much. His mother was deeply religious and had raised him in the church with a strict set of values; learning that he’d fathered a child out of wedlock wasn’t going to come as the best of news for her. He just hoped that if he could get across to her how much he cared for Jemma and intended to do right by her and Ellie, it would soften the blow.

Knowing his mum, though, it wasn’t a sure bet.

He was still lost in thought a few minutes later when the phone rang. The shrill tone of the bell startled him, making him flinch before he composed himself and reached for the receiver. Holding it up to his ear, he said, “Hello?”

“Leo Fitz?” came the tinny sound of his mother’s voice. “Leo, is that you?”

“Yes, Mum, it’s me.”

“Is something wrong?” she immediately asked, sounding concerned. “Why the phone call, instead of a letter?”

Fitz shifted in his seat. “I’m fine, Mum, don’t worry about me. I’ve just got some rather big news to tell you, that’s all.” Reminding himself they didn’t have a lot of time, he braced for her reply. “I’m, um, I’m a dad now. You’re a grandmother.”

“ _What_?!’ his mother cried, sounding horrified. “What do you mean, you’re a _father_?! You just wrote two weeks ago, you didn’t mention anything about--about--” She cut off, spluttering.

He sighed, rubbing two fingers across his forehead. “Well--about a year ago, I met a girl and, er, we got to know each other a bit, and while I was away with the Army, she had a baby. I only just found out myself.”

“While you were away?” His mother huffed derisively. “How do you know the child is even yours? How do you know she’s not some tramp trying to suck you in and milk you for all you’re worth?”

“ _Mum_ ,” Fitz said, his tone sharp. “Jemma’s not a tramp. She comes from a respectable family, and I know Ellie’s mine because I--I know what I did.”

He heard a sour-sounding noise from the other end of the phone. “I just can’t believe you, Leopold,” his mother said, and the use of his full name let him know she really was upset. “I raised you better than this, to go around getting lured in by loose women.”

Fitz rolled his eyes, unable to even summon up true, hot anger at his mother’s assessment of Jemma. She’d never say such things if she actually knew Jemma, if he’d told his mother about her before he’d left for France and she’d already known how he felt about her. At the very least, she might not call her a tramp. “She’s a good woman, Mum,” he said. “A good mother, too.”

His mother sighed. “What do you plan on doing about this?” she asked, sounding tired.

“I asked her to marry me,” he replied. “She said yes.”

“Of course she did,” she scoffed again. “What woman in her position wouldn’t?”

A cold bolt of fear lanced through him at his mother giving voice to the one doubt he’d been trying not to let himself think too much about. He wanted to believe that Jemma had agreed to marry him because she cared for him too, and because she wanted them to be together as a family--not simply because she wanted to escape her parents. He felt like he was correct; she’d said he was right, after all, when she’d accepted his proposal. He’d assumed that meant his words about them getting along well, and not just that he could take care of her and Ellie (though he very much wanted to do that). It would be better to trust Jemma over his mum for this, who was upset and angry and firmly rooted in her outdated modes of thinking.

“I asked her to marry me because I love her,” he said, quieter.

His mother sighed again, heavier this time. “Our time is almost up,” she said. “I’ll expect a letter from you explaining in detail _everything_ that has happened and your plans with this woman. I can’t stress how disappointed I am in you, Leopold. Terribly disappointed.”

Fitz closed his eyes. “I know, Mum.”

The line went dead, and he placed the receiver in its cradle with a heavy sigh of his own. That had gone about as well as he’d expected it to, actually; now he just had to write the letter laying out all the details he hadn’t had time to give and await her scathing reply.

Standing, he stepped out of the phone booth and found the postmaster watching him curiously from behind the counter. Fitz’s cheeks flushed, wondering how much of his conversation the man had overheard. But there wasn’t much else for him to do besides straighten his jumper vest, collect what dignity he could muster, and leave. He had a wedding to plan.


	7. Chapter 7

_9 July 1945_  
_Dear Bobbi,_  
 _You’ll never believe what has happened. I can hardly believe it myself. I think I’m still in shock, but it’s all true and real. Fitz is alive. We ran into each other by pure chance at the zoo last week. None of the letters I wrote ever reached him before they were sent back. He had no clue about Ellie. I thought he was going to faint when I told him he was her father. I felt like I might faint too, but we both kept it together. It turns out there was a horrible mixup with his post and he simply thought I’d lost interest in him. As if I could!_  
 _The past few days have been a whirlwind. He’s asked me to marry him. At first I didn’t know what to think or say. I didn’t want him to ask just because he thought it was the right or moral thing to do. I can see you laughing at me, because you know that all I wanted the entire time I was without him was for him to come back so we could be a family. But I don’t want him to marry me if he doesn’t love me. It’s silly, or childish maybe, to hope for such a thing in the sort of world that we live in now. I know he does care about me, that much is obvious. But it’s all just so complicated and sudden and I don’t know what to make of it. I barely know how I feel._  
 _But I did tell him yes. Ellie deserves to have her father, and I know I can be happy with him. Maybe this can be a new beginning, for all of us. I do have hope._  
 _But enough about me. How are things in America? Are you happy to be home? Is Lance adjusting to life in sunny California well? I think about you often, especially on dreary days, and about how nice the weather must be there. It’s always shown that way in films at least. Maybe we can visit someday._  
 _Please write back soon. I’m eager to hear how you’re doing._  
 _Jemma_

Ellie’s late morning meal was just wrapping up when Fitz arrived on Saturday as promised. Jemma hurried to wipe her hands on a tea towel where she’d been rinsing Ellie’s bottle and a plate in the kitchen sink and quickly walked to the door, eager to see him.

His face was expectant as she opened the door to him, but as soon as he saw her, his expression lit up. “Jemma,” he said, a wide smile breaking over his face. “Hello.”

“Good morning, Fitz,” she replied, smiling back. His ebullient mood was catching, and his smile had instantly sparked a warmth in her chest. She looked him over, taking in his neat grey trousers and woolen sleeveless jumper, and was about to stand back and invite him inside when she saw what he was holding in his hand. She gasped softly. “Flowers?”

“Oh--yes.” He held out the fistful of cornflowers to her, his smile turning a little shy. “These are for you.”

Jemma accepted them, touching a light finger to one of the spiky blue blooms, and beamed up at him. “They’re lovely. You shouldn’t have.”

He shrugged lightly, like it was nothing. “I wanted to.” As she stood aside to let him come in and shut the door behind him, he added, “I brought something for Ellie, too.” He pulled an object from his trouser pocket, holding it up to show her. It was a small, soft plush monkey.

She gasped again. “Fitz!” she cried. “Oh, it’s darling! Where did you find it?” Toys for children had been in short supply almost since the start of the war, soft toys especially, and they were still hard to come by. She couldn’t imagine the searching he must have done to find the little monkey, or how much he’d paid for it.

Fitz just grinned. “It was a lucky find,” he said mysteriously.

Jemma gave him a look that was equal parts exasperated and fond, and took the monkey from him before turning to go into the sitting room, Fitz following behind her. Mrs. Simmons looked up from her knitting in her chair by the fireplace as they came in, and watched them go to the dining room, where Ellie was still in her high chair, banging a small rattle against the tray.

“Look what Daddy’s brought you,” Jemma said, approaching Ellie and setting the monkey down on the tray in front of her. She immediately abandoned the rattle to grasp for the new toy, pulling it toward her and running her palms over the soft fur. Pleased that she liked it, Jemma looked back at Fitz to find him watching their daughter with a smile, his cheeks slightly pink. Maybe he was flushed because she’d referred to him as Ellie’s father out loud and it was new for him, or simply because he was happy she liked the gift. Either way, it only endeared him to her more.

“I’m going to get a vase for these,” she told him, gesturing with the flowers in her hand. “I’ll be right back.”

Fitz nodded his understanding, and she turned to leave for the kitchen. On her way out, her mother pointed at the flowers with one of her knitting needles. “Leo brought you those?” she asked. “They’re very nice.”

“It’s Fitz,” Jemma corrected. “But yes. I think they’re beautiful.” She smiled as she looked them over. “I’m just going to go take them upstairs.”

She found a vase in the kitchen cupboard and filled it with water, then gently placed the flowers inside and took them up to her bedroom. There, she deliberated over where to put them for a moment before settling on a sunny spot on the windowsill, liking the way the blue of the flowers looked against the sheer white of the drapes. She stood back and admired them for a moment, thinking about Fitz’s kindness, then went back downstairs.

In the dining room, Mrs. Simmons had joined Fitz and the two of them were watching as Ellie chewed on one of the monkey’s little paws. “Oh, I see she’s taken to it right away,” Jemma laughed, then leaned over to set the rattle on the dining table and get the tray loosened. “Come on, time to take you downstairs.”

Her mother went back to her knitting as Jemma put the tray aside and picked Ellie up. “You can spend some time with her, she usually stays awake this time of day,” she said to Fitz, who brightened at the invitation. He followed them downstairs to her father’s little-used office and library, which Ellie’s nursery sat just off of. It was where Jemma did her translating work if she had any, and where she let Ellie get in some playtime while she read books. She set Ellie down on the middle of the rug and got herself settled beside her, motioning for Fitz to do the same. He sat down a little more gingerly, crossing his legs and watching as Ellie flopped onto her back, holding the monkey to her chest and kicking her feet in the air.

“A church wedding is definitely out of the question,” Jemma said after a moment, deciding to just dive right into it. Glancing up, she saw that Fitz was looking at her and gave him a wry smile. “My mum hasn’t come out and said as much, I don’t think she can quite bring herself to, but she’s made it clear that the announcements would raise too many questions with her friends, given the story she’s told them all. I really do hope you’re not too disappointed.”

Fitz shrugged one shoulder. “I told you, I’m fine with a civil ceremony. I’m not very religious, so it doesn’t bother me. Um--my mum might have something to say about it, though.”

Something about the tone of his voice as he mentioned his mother put a drop of dread in her stomach. Unlike when he’d mentioned her when they’d gone out to eat the previous weekend, now he sounded a bit down. “Have you spoken to her at all, since we met again?” she asked hesitantly, plucking at the hem of her skirt. “Or written to her?”

He nodded, reaching up to scratch at his eyebrow, and frowned. “I rung her. She, ah, didn’t take the news that she’s a grandmother very well.”

“Oh.” Jemma looked down, feeling her cheeks heat up. She tried to focus on Ellie, who had rolled onto her side and was still determinedly gnawing on the plush monkey, though it wasn’t much use. Fitz hadn’t said so, but he didn’t have to. It was implicit: his mother had judged her unfavorably. Of course she had; nearly everyone else had done so, why should she be any different?

“Hey.” Fitz put out a hand on the rug toward her, his voice gentle, and when she looked back up at him, his expression was soft. “I’m not ashamed of you,” he said. “Either of you. I wouldn’t have asked you to marry me if I was.” He smiled. “I’m sure that once she meets you and sees Ellie, she’ll come around.”

She gave him a weak smile in return, but she couldn’t put much feeling behind it. Her experience was that once she’d been branded indecent, she would always remain so in the eyes of those that passed judgment. She appreciated his optimism, however, and that he at least was willing to hope for the best.

Fitz watched her for another brief moment before turning his attention to Ellie. She had finally abandoned the monkey and managed to roll onto her stomach, and was now making an attempt to push up onto her chubby little hands and knees. “Is she crawling yet?” he asked curiously.

The question made Jemma crack a smile. “Not really. Not yet,” she replied fondly, as Ellie started making a back-and-forth rocking motion that only succeeded in pushing her backwards. “But she makes a valiant attempt.”

Fitz grinned as he tracked her progress, watching as she slowly scooted past him, then glanced up at Jemma. “Can I hold her?”

Jemma froze for a second. The question wasn’t entirely unexpected, but still--Fitz wanting to actually touch and hold his daughter made her heart burn with a fierce sort of emotion she couldn’t quite identify. And he looked so nervous, like he thought she might say no. She wanted him to know he never needed to ask.

“Of course,” she said warmly, once she’d found her voice, and shifted to lean forward and grasp Ellie beneath her arms. Lifting her from the floor, she turned her to set her down on Fitz’s knee, facing him. He held his arms out of the way, not sure what to do with them, until she said, “She can mostly support herself now, but here--keep a hand on her to hold her steady.” She directed Fitz to place one of his hands at Ellie’s back, and he winced as the baby wobbled slightly, but she stayed upright. Satisfied that he had a good grip on her, Jemma sat back and soaked in the sight of Fitz with their daughter.

He was watching her carefully, appearing to be holding his breath. Ellie stared up at him, her eyes wide and round, and Jemma could only hope that on some level, she was making the connection that this new person was her father. Fitz smiled tentatively at her, and she babbled shortly before reaching out to grab a fistful of his jumper. His smile widened, and he passed his free hand lightly over the crown of her head, smoothing down her hair and trailing his fingers over her pudgy arm. “I think she likes me alright,” he joked, looking up at Jemma.

She felt that burning emotion again, an intense sort of love and happiness wrapped up together, a desperate wish for Fitz and Ellie to bond so they could have a real relationship. It made her smile, but as she watched, Fitz’s expression turned contemplative as he touched his fingers to their daughter’s toes and the edge of her frock.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you,” he said quietly, “during…” He gestured vaguely at Ellie. “Well, everything.”

Jemma’s heart sank a little in dismay. “Oh, Fitz,” she replied, “you don’t have to apologize, we’ve been over it. You didn’t know.”

“I could have, though,” he insisted, and it broke her heart that he wanted to keep beating himself up for what had happened. “Even if I couldn’t have come home, at least you would’ve known I was alive.” He sighed and looked down at where Ellie was still tugging at his jumper. “I actually came looking for you,” he added, even quieter.

Jemma frowned. “What?”

Fitz gently pulled his jumper from Ellie’s grasp and readjusted it. “We were back in England for a little while after things were mostly sorted in France,” he explained, his eyes still on his lap. “For about two months, from the beginning of July. I got a day pass and took a train to Bletchley. Everyone was getting caught up on their post, and I hadn’t received anything from you, so I thought… I thought maybe I’d come see you.” He glanced up at her. “I had the Foreign Office address you’d given me, but no one at the post office recognized it, or recognized you when I gave them your name and description. I…” He exhaled a laugh, sounding bewildered. “I didn’t understand it at all, because you obviously received my letters, but all I could think was that maybe you’d left notice and you didn’t _want_ to be found… or you just didn’t want to write anymore. So I gave up and went back to Ramsbury.”

She had listened to his tale with mounting horror, but with the full story all Jemma felt was heavy, crushing guilt and a need to rage at the unfairness of it all. How many things now had conspired against them, how many unfortunate errors or circumstances outside their control had come together to keep them apart? First it was his shoddy mail system, and now it was the unforgiving secrecy of her old job. If they had been any other people, perhaps, their story might not be as tragic. To add insult to injury, she still couldn’t tell him the full truth of what she had done at Bletchley.

Seeing that she was struggling to stay composed, Fitz frowned in concern. “Jemma?”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, and looked up at him. “The work I was doing for the government was top-secret. I couldn’t tell anyone about it, not even my parents. Nor you, when we first met. I can’t even tell you now.” Seeing his expression change as understanding came over his face, she hurried to add, “They didn’t tell you where I was at the post office because they _couldn’t_. But I swear, Fitz, I didn’t lie about anything else. Not about Cambridge, or the rest of my life, or anything else I told you in my letters. Just my work.”

Fitz nodded slowly, appearing to absorb all of that, and after a moment shook his head, breathing out another soft, sad laugh. “I just can’t help but think that if I’d trusted you more, if I’d just written you one more letter, we could have avoided all of this. And maybe things would be different now.”

Maybe things would be, Jemma thought. He would have been in England shortly after she’d first suspected she was pregnant. Would he have proposed right away, if she’d been able to tell him then? Would she still have said yes? Would they already be married now? It would be so easy to wallow in the what-ifs and might-have-beens, but she’d done more than enough of that for the both of them already. Now, all she wanted to do was focus on the future. Their future, together.

“You know about my father,” Fitz continued, his mind obviously still in the past. “Now that I’m older, I think I can better understand what my mum went through and what she sacrificed for me.” He looked up at her with eyes full of regret. “I just hate the thought that you and Ellie might have faced any sort of hardship because of me. Or the lack of me, rather.”

Jemma really didn’t know how to respond to that--she just knew it tangled her emotions into knots, facing more of Fitz’s good and kind heart, his thoughtfulness, his concern. It occurred to her that perhaps he was a better man than she deserved, but she stubbornly pushed that thought away. She wouldn’t have felt that way before she’d had Ellie, and she shouldn’t now.

“We did fine,” she said softly, at a loss for how to reassure him. They hadn’t suffered terribly, and she didn’t want him to think they had.

He gave her a wan smile, like he didn’t quite believe her, and looked at Ellie again. “I feel like I’ve missed out on so much,” he murmured. “I never got to see you all…” He made a vague gesture at her stomach. “And I wasn’t there when she was born.”

It broke her heart that Fitz was so dejected over what he’d missed, but Jemma could only imagine how she would feel were she in his place. She didn’t want him to be sad and upset with himself, though; he had them now, and Ellie was still an infant. They had years ahead of them hopefully to make plenty of good memories.

“You’re here now,” she reminded him gently, reaching out to place a hand on his knee. “You won’t have to miss anything anymore.”

Fitz’s smile softened and turned a little more genuine. “That’s true,” he said quietly. “Isn’t that right?” He directed this last to Ellie, who had grabbed his free hand and was prying at his fingers, seemingly intent on figuring out how they worked. Fitz wiggled them slightly in her grasp. “I won’t miss out on anything else now, because I’ll always be here.”

Seeing him talk so sweetly to their daughter, Jemma thought her heart might burst.

-:-

Their conversation eventually moved on to more practical topics, and they spent the next couple of hours just talking, discussing the logistics of getting married and planning out the details to put it into motion. Fitz told her he’d asked about the requirements to get a marriage license, and they agreed on a date and time to go to the Register Office near his flat to apply for one.

They also talked about where they might like to live--Fitz’s flat was far too small for the three of them, and obviously Jemma wanted to move out of her parents’ home. They would have to live more modestly than she was accustomed to, as Fitz’s pay as a writer wasn’t extravagant, but she didn’t mind at all. The talk of buying a home together, just for themselves, was a bit thrilling to her, and Jemma found herself going a bit dreamy thinking of all the possible places they might live.

She tried asking him about his time in France again, curious about the places he’d gone and the things he’d seen; she had the context of the stories he’d published in the _Telegraph_ , but she wanted to hear it straight from him. Unfortunately, Fitz redirected all of her questions or stayed mum, just as he had when she’d asked him about the war before. It wasn’t just a one-off thing then, a reticent mood of the day. He clearly didn’t want to talk about the war at all, ever, so she let the subject drop, resolving to never bring it up again if she could help it.

Ellie stayed in Fitz’s lap at first, amusing herself with the texture of his jumper and the shape of his hands, even trying to put his fingers in her mouth a few times. Fitz just laughed and gently pulled his hand away, making her grab for it again, and stroked his palm over her head. Eventually she grew restless and struggled to squirm out of his lap. Jemma guided Fitz in placing her back on the rug, and then they continued talking as Ellie went back to scooting backwards in vain until she stumbled across her monkey and decided it was more interesting than trying to be mobile. By the time Mrs. Simmons came downstairs to let them know that lunch was ready and Fitz was more than welcome to stay, Ellie was on her back again directly in front of Fitz, half-asleep with the monkey clutched in her arms.

“Let’s get this little one in her cot and then we can go upstairs to eat,” Jemma said, pushing up to her knees and reaching out for her daughter. Fitz watched as she gathered Ellie up in her arms and took her into the nursery, gently laying her down in her cot and tucking the stuffed monkey next to her. Ellie whuffled once, shifting a bit, then went still with her eyes closed.

Upstairs, Fitz looked a little unsure as everyone seated themselves at the dining room table to tuck into the lunch that Mrs. Wilson had prepared. Jemma couldn’t tell if he felt guilty for stretching their rations, as he had done when he’d begged off lunch that first day, or if he was just nervous about having a proper conversation with her parents. She gave him a warm smile across the table, hoping to soothe any ill feelings he might have.

“So tell us a little about yourself, Fitz,” Dr. Simmons said as he cut into his dish. “Jemma told us you’re a writer, but not much else.”

Fitz set his teacup down and pursed his lips. “Well… I’m from Glasgow, I grew up there,” he started, looking around at Jemma and her mother. “I went to university at St. Andrews and read English Literature, and moved to London right after I came down when I got a job with the _Telegraph_. They were interested in sending war correspondents into the field, and I wanted to do my part, so I volunteered and they immediately got me assigned to the 101st Airborne with the American Army.”

Dr. Simmons nodded as he chewed a bite of food. After he swallowed, he said, “That’s right. Jemma mentioned you were a photographer as well as a writer, but not a proper soldier.”

Fitz glanced at Jemma, and she felt her cheeks burn. She’d told her parents what he did with the army, but she’d never put it so disparagingly. She never would have insinuated that he was less than anything.

“Ah… no, I wasn’t enlisted or anything like that,” Fitz replied awkwardly, poking his fork into his food. “But I did train to do combat parachute jumps so I could go in with them, and I was taught to use a rifle in case I had to make myself useful in a tight spot.”

Dr. Simmons nodded again, looking interested. “Did you ever have to fight?”

Fitz stared for a brief moment, his face going carefully blank and pale. “Yes,” he said simply.

Jemma’s heart ached seeing his expression, and at having one of her worst fears confirmed. She’d been afraid that he’d been forced to fight while he was gone, and that maybe that was why he was so hesitant to talk about any of it. Perhaps he’d felt like he could get away with dodging the subject around her, feeling more comfortable in her presence, but didn’t want to offend her father by refusing to answer his questions.

Fortunately, her father didn’t seem to notice Fitz’s disquiet. He just tucked back into his lunch, nodding once more as if learning that his future son-in-law had seen active combat was a matter of course. Her mother, however, looked like she had some questions of her own.

“Where do you live now?” she asked, taking a sip of her tea. “Are you able to support a family?”

Fitz looked to Jemma again and ducked his head slightly as he finished chewing a bite of his food. “I live in Bloomsbury,” he said, swallowing, “just near Russell Square. I’m afraid it’s a small flat though, not big enough for all of us. But, um--” He shot Jemma another look. “My editor’s secretary told me about a nice little house out in Chiswick for let that would be perfect for raising a family.”

“Chiswick?” Mrs. Simmons said, sounding faintly unimpressed. “That’s almost an hour away on the Tube.”

“Fitz said he could take me out to see it,” Jemma piped up, wanting to lend him some support. “To get my opinion on it. The way he described it, it sounds lovely.”

“But will you be able to afford a house on a writer’s salary?” Mrs. Simmons asked, frowning. “I was under the impression that writers weren’t paid much.”

Dr. Simmons looked up from his plate in interest, and Jemma was dismayed to see that Fitz’s face was visibly flushed. She’d expected her parents to question him, but not rake him over the coals quite this badly. His mouth worked a bit, like he was obviously trying to think of something to say, or get up the courage to say something specific, but Jemma beat him to it.

“We’ll be fine, Mum,” she said, trying to take some of the pressure off of Fitz. “He can take care of us.”

His face relaxed and he gave her a grateful look, but then her mother turned on her. “I’m just concerned, is all,” she said. “If you won’t be able to afford to hire help, how are you going to manage a house? You’ve never had to.”

Jemma looked down at her half-eaten plate as a wave of deep embarrassment rolled over her. Her family had always been well off enough to be able to afford Mrs. Wilson’s service, but she didn’t think that had rendered her completely helpless. Her mother asserting that she might be was humiliating--especially in front of Fitz.

“I managed while living with the girls in Bletchley,” she said tightly, trying not to clench her hand around her fork.

“Yes, but you still had help there,” her mother pressed. “Now, you’ll be on your own.”

Jemma breathed in slowly through her nose in an attempt to control her temper. She was hard-pressed not to say that she’d like to see her mother manage on her own as well, but she knew nothing good could possibly come of that, so she restrained herself. It didn’t make her feel any better, though. She couldn’t even look at Fitz, she was so mortified. What if he was thinking he’d asked a spoiled, soft girl with no sensible skills to marry him?

“I’ll manage,” she said firmly. “I’ll learn as I go. I can read a recipe book or a list of instructions just fine. And if I run into a spot of trouble, well--I suppose I could always ask a neighbor.”

She could feel Fitz watching her, but she didn’t dare look up. Next to her, her mother looked like she wanted to say more on the matter, but she evidently thought better of it because she changed the subject. “Have you told Fitz that a church wedding is unfortunately out of the question?”

At least her mum was calling him by his preferred name now, Jemma thought. A small victory. Finally chancing a look across the table at him, she found that Fitz was already watching her, and when their eyes met, he gave her a little smile. It eased the knot of tension in her chest somewhat. “I have,” she said. “He’s fine with it.”  
  
“It’s a shame,” Mrs. Simmons sighed. “I always did want to see you get married at St. Mary’s, just like your father and I did. But there’s nothing to be done about it now.”

So much for feeling a bit better--now Jemma wished a hole would open up in the floor and swallow her entirely. Here was yet another reminder of how she’d disappointed her parents, how she and Ellie had shamed them and forced them to lie in order to maintain respectability. It felt like her mother was casting aspersions on both her _and_ Fitz now, and Jemma couldn’t stand it. Before she could reply, however, Fitz cleared his throat.

“I really don’t mind getting married at the Register Office,” he said, cutting into his food with the side of his fork as he looked over at Mrs. Simmons. “For me, it’s more about the people getting married than the ceremony itself. That’s what’s important.” Then he looked at Jemma and smiled again, his eyes soft and reassuring.

To her right, her father cracked a smile too as he picked up his teacup. “Hear, hear,” he said, and took a long sip.

That, more than anything, soothed Jemma’s see-sawing emotions, alongside Fitz’s steady calm. If her father could agree with Fitz and potentially take their side on something, maybe there was hope for what her parents thought of them. She felt like they still had a lot of work to do on her mother before she would approve of Fitz and the new life Jemma was stepping into, but having her father as an ally would help a lot.

Dr. Simmons picked up the conversation then, asking Fitz what he was currently doing at the _Telegraph_ in more detail. Jemma focused on her meal, trying to blot out her mother’s presence next to her and all of the embarrassing questions she’d asked. As soon as lunch was finished and they could politely escape, she walked Fitz to the front door to see him out. He’d said he had errands to run and some weekend work to do, and didn’t want to let them lie too long.

“I’m sorry about my parents,” she said quietly once they were outside on the front stoop. “Especially my mother. She’s not usually like this, I just… I think I started ruining all of their hopes for me when I went to work for the government and I haven’t stopped since.”

Seeing the way she was wringing her hands, Fitz shrugged one shoulder, as if he hadn’t been deeply embarrassed over lunch as well. “It’s alright,” he replied.

“And I’m sorry my father asked you about the war,” she added, glancing up at him and twisting her hands together even more. “It’s clear to me that you don’t want to talk about it and…” She sighed. “I’m sorry he brought it up.”

Fitz frowned slightly for a moment, then shook his head once. “Don’t worry about it,” he insisted. When Jemma didn’t look convinced, he gave her a smile that held a hint of sadness, but was mostly sweet and warm, and gently tapped the bottom of her chin with his finger. “Hey,” he said. “We’ll be alright, you and me. I promise.” When she looked up at him, his smile widened encouragingly. “Don’t worry about what your mum said, we’ll be fine. We’re twice as smart together and we’ll figure things out. You’ll see.”

His assurance, mostly unsaid but still understood, that he didn’t think she was a helpless lost cause lifted her spirits tremendously. It spread a genuine smile over her face--he thought they were a team. A team united could stand together against any unfair expectations. After months of feeling like she’d been going at it alone, it was a relief to know she finally had someone on her side.

“Right,” she said softly, nodding at him with a renewed sense of hope. “We’ll see.”

Seemingly satisfied that he’d cheered her up a bit at least, Fitz grinned at her. “Right,” he echoed. “So, I’ll see you on Monday morning, yeah? At the Register Office.”

“Yes,” Jemma confirmed, a tiny spark of anticipation shooting through her at the knowledge they’d be applying for their marriage license. “First thing.”

“I’ll see you then,” Fitz said, and hesitated briefly before turning to leave. “Have a good evening, Jemma.”

He skipped down the steps to the pavement, and looked back to give her one more smile. She waved at him and he raised a hand back in farewell, and then he was headed down the street toward the main road, his hands shoved in his trouser pockets. Jemma sighed as she watched him go, and reminded herself that she wouldn’t have to watch him leave for too terribly much longer.

-:-

Thus a sort of routine began. That next Monday, Jemma met Fitz as planned at the Register Office near his flat to fill out the paperwork for their marriage license. Once they had it submitted, they were informed they had to wait twenty-one days for their license to be issued for them to be able to get married, which gave them some time to get their affairs in order.

So Fitz started visiting every other day or so, for a short while on his lunch breaks from work during the week, or for a few hours on the weekend. Sometimes they discussed the wedding or their plans to buy a home and move in together, but sometimes Fitz just came to spend time with them. Occasionally he brought little gifts with him, like his chocolate ration for the week or a flower for her or Ellie. One day he even brought her a book he thought she’d like, and on another he presented her with a pair of fresh new nylons.

“They’re left over from when I was with the Army in Ramsbury,” he explained, pink staining his cheeks. “The lads would get them to hand out to girls and get in their good favor, and they said I should keep a pair on hand too, just in case. But I never had a girl to give them to.” He gave her a shy smile. “Until you.”

Jemma held the sheer, silky stockings in her hands with more than a fair bit of reverence, though she was gently amused by Fitz’s bashfulness. She’d been in dire need of a new pair of good stockings; they’d become a rare commodity during the war and she’d been forced to improvise like so many other women, drawing lines up the back of her legs with a makeup pencil for evenings out. The American GIs had been a well-known source of stockings for any young woman who might catch their eye, but Jemma had never been in a position to find herself with any. And nylons were much more durable than silk stockings. These would last her a good, long while.

“Thank you, Fitz,” she said, smiling at him. “Truly. Even if you had to wait awhile to ply favors with these.” She gestured at him with the nylons.

Fitz’s face turned comically indignant. “I am _not_ plying favors--”

“I’m just teasing you,” she laughed. His face collapsed into a pout, which she found more adorable than it had any right to be. “I’m glad you consider me a worthy girl to gift them to.”

“Well, of course I do,” he answered, completely without guile. “You’re going to be my wife. Who else would I give them to?”

Even though she knew he was right, Jemma found herself blushing at what was obviously a very sweet and heartfelt compliment, and she had to excuse herself to go put the nylons in her dresser drawer so he wouldn’t see how red her cheeks were.

She looked forward to his visits, not just because she adored how he doted on Ellie, but for his own merit as well--they talked just as easily as they did when they’d first met and hadn’t run out of topics to discuss yet. He was delightful to be around and always held her interest. He was a little more soft-spoken now than she remembered him being, and there was a certain haunted quality to his eyes that hadn’t been there before, but he was still the same kind, funny, intelligent man who’d insisted he couldn’t dance and would rather talk about books instead.

Jemma also decided to take her mother’s concerns into her own hands before getting married: she approached Mrs. Wilson and asked for her help and guidance in learning how to maintain a house. She didn’t dare ask her mother, fearing more ridicule and bad advice, but she trusted Mrs. Wilson. The older woman had been cooking and cleaning their home for years, and if there was anyone who could teach Jemma the basics of housekeeping, it was her.

She shyly approached her in the kitchen after breakfast one morning to ask if she could teach her to cook. Mrs. Wilson was slightly surprised, but once Jemma explained that she wanted to be doubly sure that she could follow a recipe and still make an edible meal, she was more than happy to offer her services. Mrs. Wilson brought out her collection of the pamphlets and flyers the Ministry of Food had sent out during the war that offered tips, tricks, and recipes on how to efficiently cook on the ration, and gave them to Jemma to keep. Then she let her start assisting in the preparation of lunch and dinner when she wasn’t watching over Ellie, patiently instructing her on the more advanced dishes Jemma hadn’t mastered while living in Bletchley. When Mrs. Wilson was satisfied that Jemma had learned enough, she let her prepare lunch all on her own one day. When her parents ate it without complaint, she took it as a victory.

A week before their wedding, Jemma went with Fitz out to Chiswick. He’d taken a few photos of the house his editor’s secretary had recommended to him and developed them to show her, and she’d thought it looked just as ideal for them as he felt it was. So he’d gone ahead and put in an offer to let it, and when it was accepted, he’d shown up at her parents’ house with the deed in an excited flutter. Their home secured, Jemma did the paperwork to apply for their utility furniture permit so they could fill it, and once they had their coupon book, they located a furniture store in Chiswick to buy from.

Fitz took her by their house first. The walk from the Underground station to the high street was short, and Jemma found it to be very pleasant. The road was lined with sturdy oak trees, with shops on one side and Turnham Green on the other; though there was a fair amount of pedestrians and vehicles about, it still managed to feel a good bit removed from the manic hustle and bustle of central London. It felt like the perfect place to raise a family. Fitz even looked more relaxed than usual, which only confirmed in her mind that they had made a good choice of neighborhood to settle down in.

Leaving the high street, they walked down a few quiet roads lined with two-story terraced houses until they came to the one Jemma recognized from Fitz’s photographs. “Here we are,” he said cheerfully, unlatching the little wooden gate that led into the tiny front garden.

She looked up at the house, taking in the light brick facade and the white moulding around the bay window and front door on the ground floor, and thought it looked positively charming. That feeling only increased when Fitz led her inside. The house was a fairly standard two-up, two-down construction with a kitchen and bath, and a back garden complete with Anderson shelter--left over from the previous occupants--alongside a small vegetable patch. Everything was well-kept and in good condition.

It was so easy to imagine the house filled with furniture and whatever personal touches they managed to give it, to picture them building a life for themselves. She could see Ellie growing older there, going off to school, thriving. She could even, if she allowed herself to think about it, see herself growing closer to Fitz there.

“So what do you think?” he asked once they were back in the empty sitting room, ambling slowly toward her with his hands on his hips.

Jemma looked around the room again, mentally arranging the furniture they still needed to purchase, then smiled at him. “I think it’s perfect,” she said. “I think we could be very happy here.”

“Yeah?” There was a light in his eyes, hope written in the softness of his smile, and it made her stomach do a little flip as a whole host of muddled emotions swelled up inside her. She had hope for them too, of course she did, but she didn’t know where she fell in her feelings for him yet, and she was terrified of failing him or disappointing him somehow.

However confused she was about herself though, his earnestness was catching, and her smile widened just a little for him. “Yeah,” she said back. “I really do.”

The way his own smile blossomed in response only made the flutters in her chest grow.

-:-    

The morning before their wedding, Fitz came to visit one last time. His mother was due to arrive by train in the afternoon, but he wanted to come see Jemma and Ellie first. She was feeling a little jittery, not out of doubts or otherwise cold feet, but because it just seemed like such an important thing, getting married; and although she’d done everything she could to prepare, she was still worried that something might go wrong.

Out in the back garden, Fitz took both of her hands in his and gave them a gentle squeeze. “Hey,” he said softly. “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be just fine. It’ll all go off without a hitch.” But even he looked a little nervous, unable to keep from biting his lip.

Jemma laughed softly. “Oh, I know,” she replied. “There’s not much that can go wrong with a civil ceremony at the Register Office. I just… I want it to be perfect.”

“It will be,” he reassured her, and swung their hands a little between them. “Tomorrow we’ll be married, and we can have a fresh start. We can do things the way we were meant to.”

_The way we were meant to._ That made her heart clench painfully, thinking of all the months she’d spent alone missing him, wishing he was there for her and Ellie, and her lower lip trembled slightly. Unsure what to say that wouldn’t turn her into a blubbering wreck, she chose to focus on something else entirely instead. “And--I admit I’m anxious to move into our house,” she said, squeezing his hands for support. “It’ll be nice to have a place to call my own.”

“There’s that, too,” Fitz replied, his smile growing. “Just focus on the positives. Or if you’re too nervous, you can just… focus on me, maybe, if you like. Pretend like there’s no one else there. We’ll get through it.”

Jemma nodded, putting it into practice a bit in the moment--focusing on Fitz there in the present with her, his hands curled around hers, not far away and missing like he’d been for so long. She was surprised but pleased to find that it actually worked; after a moment, the sour racing of her heart slowed, and she could breathe easier.

“We will,” she said, looking back up at him and squeezing his hands again. Tomorrow, they were starting a new chapter of their lives, and he would be beside her every step of the way. She had nothing to be afraid of. Now, he was staying for good.


	8. Chapter 8

On the morning of his wedding to Jemma, Fitz stood freshly cleaned and shaved in front of the open wardrobe in the bedroom of his new home in Chiswick. He’d moved in a couple of days prior, as soon as the furniture he and Jemma had bought together was delivered, and he’d only just finished getting everything ready the night before for Jemma to move in--transferring his ration book registration to the local grocer, arranging for deliveries from the iceman, setting up the furniture. Jemma could rearrange it all however she liked when she moved in tomorrow, he didn’t mind, but for the time being he’d set everything up in a way that looked logical.

He opened the door to the wardrobe a little wider. His side was already full with his coat, Sunday suit, and several shirts, but one item amongst them all stood out loudly to him: his Army dress uniform.

Fitz sighed. He would much rather wear his Sunday suit to be married in, but he knew his mum would have kittens if he didn’t wear the dress uniform. He might not have been a proper soldier in the British army, but she still firmly believed that he had served his country and earned the right to wear his uniform to formal occasions, even if it was American. And though he would much rather never see the uniform again due to the memories it evoked, he didn’t want to disappoint his mum more than he already had. So he was determined to bite the bullet and don the brown jacket and trousers one more time at least to please her.

Besides, he reminded himself as he pulled the jacket from the wardrobe, not all of the memories he associated with the uniform were unpleasant. He’d met Jemma while wearing it, and those hours were definitely some of the best of his life. Marrying her wearing the uniform held a certain sort of symmetry, he supposed.

Once he was dressed, he went to look at himself in the mirror affixed to the inside of the wardrobe door. Everything was starched and pressed and in order, his silver jump wings pin straight on his jacket, his shoes shined, and his hair neatly combed. But he didn’t think he recognized the man in the mirror looking back at him, not anymore. He’d been eager once, ready for action and the opportunity to write about the greatest conflict in recorded history. This new Fitz was quiet and drawn with a dullness to his eyes that he tried desperately to hide. 

He was due to marry the girl of his dreams in just a couple of hours, though, so it was time for him to put on his best face and carry on. Jemma deserved nothing less.

-:-

At the Register Office across the street from King’s Cross, Jemma was fighting the urge to pace. They were still well ahead of their 10 a.m. appointment time, but the closer it drew, the more nervous she became--especially since Fitz and his mother still hadn’t arrived. She didn’t think he’d gotten cold feet, not at all, but she was sure she would feel much better once he was there. Or possibly not. That hinged on how his mother reacted to meeting her. If Fitz’s vague intimations regarding his phone call with her were anything to go by, she wouldn’t like her at all.

Taking in a slow, deep breath, Jemma tugged at the bottom of her utility suit jacket, smoothing out some invisible wrinkles. The jacket and skirt set was brand new, purchased using some of her clothing coupons, and was made of a steel blue wool that she thought very flattering. Traditional wedding dresses had become a thing of the past since the introduction of rationing and the utility scheme, which hadn’t ended just because the war had. This wasn’t a traditional wedding, anyway; she supposed she’d feel rather silly wearing a fancy, white dress to get married at the Register Office. No, her suit was just fine. 

She’d chosen to wear the nylons Fitz had brought her as well, happy to have a good pair of stockings to wear on her wedding day, and carefully done up her face and set her hair. She wanted to look nice, knowing she wouldn’t get another opportunity for this. Hopefully Fitz would appreciate the effort she’d gone to. 

Finally giving in to the urge to pace just a little bit, Jemma turned to look at her parents, who were standing a few feet away outside the registrar’s office and talking quietly to each other. They were both dressed fashionably, her father in his crisp Sunday suit and her mother in her nicest dress and hat. Then there was Mrs. Wilson, who had come in just for the occasion and was holding Ellie, who they’d clothed in a small white cotton frock her mother had made.

Knowing her daughter would help soothe her, Jemma walked to her and cooed softly over her a bit, letting Ellie grab her hand and play with it. Mrs. Wilson smiled as she watched, shifting the baby on her hip to let her see Jemma better, and just as Jemma had hoped, focusing on Ellie calmed her nerves a bit. Then she looked to her parents again.

“I’m going to go check the front entrance,” she told them. “Maybe they’ve gotten lost on their way in.”

Her mother nodded, signaling they understood, and Jemma turned to head down the hallway toward the front entrance to the Office. As she approached the entryway, however, she heard heated voices coming from around the corner that slowed her steps.

“I am _sure_ I want to go through with this,” a man said. Fitz. She would recognize his accent anywhere. “There’s no doubt in my mind.”

“I just don’t want you rushing into anything,” a woman’s voice replied. She sounded older, with a similar accent to Fitz’s, so she had to be his mother. “You barely know this woman.”

Jemma’s stomach clenched. So her fears were true and his mum didn’t care for her one bit, sight unseen, right up to trying to convince her son not to marry her. Curious to hear Fitz’s response despite knowing that eavesdropping was rarely a good idea, she inched forward.

“I may not have known her for very long,” Fitz shot back, “but I know her well enough to know that I love her.”

Jemma sucked in a soft gasp, a warm prickle of shock rushing over her. He loved her? Well--maybe she shouldn’t be so surprised. Thinking back, all of his interactions with her and the way he treated her spoke to a deep level of care, but he’d never _told_ her he loved her. Why not? Had she somehow signaled that it was something she didn’t want to hear? Even if she wasn’t sure if she loved him yet herself, she would never turn him away if he confessed his feelings. In fact, she’d _wanted_ him to love her, if he was going to marry her.

Realizing that’s Fitz’s mother was speaking again, Jemma gave her head a little shake to clear it and focus on what was being said.

“I’m worried, Leo, that’s all,” she was saying. “I’m afraid you’ve been sucked in by a woman with ill intent.”

Jemma’s heart sank even further, but then Fitz said, his voice firm, “She’s a good woman, Mum, and I won’t hear another bad word about her. If you can’t at least be polite, you’ll never get to know your granddaughter. Is that clear?” There was a silence-filled pause where she could only imagine how Mrs. Fitz was responding before he added, “Good. Now come on, I don’t want to be late.”  
  
Realizing she was about to be caught listening in, Jemma straightened and made to start walking forward. Just then, Fitz and a shorter, plump woman with greying curly hair came around the corner, nearly running into her. Jemma let out a soft yelp, startled despite herself, and Fitz reached out with both hands to steady her, laughing when he realized it was her. 

“Jemma!” he cried happily, all traces of his recent sternness gone. “Didn’t expect to find you right here.”

She laughed too, a little more awkwardly on her part. “Oh, I--I was just coming to see if maybe you’d gotten lost,” she said, her cheeks flushing slightly.

“Not at all,” Fitz assured her. Then he placed a light hand at the small of her back and turned to his mother, who was watching them with an unreadable face. “Mum, this is Jemma Simmons. Soon to be Fitz.” His face split in a small smile. “Jemma, this is my mum, Margaret Fitz.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Jemma said in her warmest voice, holding out her hand and hoping very much that she didn’t look like someone who’d just overheard negative things being said about her. 

Mrs. Fitz accepted her hand, but shook it rather coolly. “Charmed,” was all she said, her tone just shy of neutral. Jemma supposed it was the best she could hope for, considering the other woman had just a moment ago suggested she was a woman with ill intentions toward her only son.

Fitz was watching them both closely, and when his mother dropped Jemma’s hand, he turned toward her. “Have you been waiting very long?”

Jemma shook her head. “Oh, no, not very. I was just having a spot of nerves.” She smiled apologetically at him. “But my parents are waiting outside the registrar’s office, and Mrs. Wilson has Ellie.”

At the mention of his daughter, Fitz brightened. “Well, let’s not keep _them_ waiting,” he said. He offered an elbow to his mother, who silently took it, and the three of them started off down the hall. As they walked, he leaned his head toward Jemma and quietly said, “You look beautiful.”

She couldn’t help but smile, a pleased blush coloring her cheeks. Her efforts hadn’t been in vain, then. “Thank you,” she murmured. “You look handsome yourself.” Her heart had leapt when she’d seen that he was wearing his dress uniform; he looked so dashing in it, and it brought back so many good memories for her. She wondered if he’d chosen to wear it to get married in for that reason, or because he was proud of his service, or perhaps that it was the nicest suit he owned. Whatever the reason, seeing him wear it warmed her heart.

Fitz smiled and ducked his head a bit, looking pleased, and he resembled the man she’d first met so much in that moment, uniform and all, that it made her heart clench. Jemma had to take a moment to swallow and stuff down the emotions that evoked. 

When they rejoined her parents, Fitz let go of his mother to make a beeline straight for Ellie. “There’s my girl,” he exclaimed as he approached Mrs. Wilson, who was still holding her. Seeing her father, Ellie held out her arms to him, and he came right to her to place a kiss on the crown of her head. It made Jemma’s heart melt to see them bonding so well, that Ellie already recognized Fitz well enough to want to reach for him on her own, and that Fitz loved her enough to shower her with affection--which wasn’t something she often saw fathers do.

Another round of introductions were made, which Jemma couldn’t help but think were slightly stilted. Fitz’s mother was perfectly polite in her words and her own parents were nothing but gracious, but there was still a certain stiffness to Mrs. Fitz’s posture that broadcasted that she disapproved of what they were doing. She was kind to Ellie at least, smiling at her and commenting on what a beautiful baby she was, and how much her face resembled Fitz’s when he’d been an infant. That got smiles out of everyone, especially when Ellie babbled in response.

Then the registrar--a tall, thin man with salt-and-pepper hair in a grey suit--appeared at the door to his office and asked if they were ready to begin the ceremony. A nervous swell of butterflies took flight in Jemma’s chest, and she looked to Fitz; he simply gave her a small, reassuring smile and offered her his arm. She took it, and they followed the registrar down the hall to a side room that was large enough to hold a small gathering of people. Their parents and Mrs. Wilson were invited to take seats, while Fitz and Jemma were directed to stand at the front of the room before the registrar. They took their place, and Fitz placed his hand over hers where it gripped the crook of his elbow. She gave his arm a short squeeze.

“Now, you’ve chosen to use traditional vows, is that correct?” the registrar asked, opening a small, thin book he was holding and slipping a small piece of paper inside. Jemma and Fitz both nodded, and the registrar smiled. “Then let us begin.”

He turned to Fitz. “Are you, Leopold James Fitz, free, lawfully, to marry Jemma Anne Simmons?”  

Fitz swallowed and straightened his shoulders. “I am,” he said clearly.

The registrar then turned his attention to Jemma. “And are you, Jemma Anne Simmons, free, lawfully, to marry Leopold James Fitz?”

She nodded, the butterflies fluttering in her chest surging. “I am.”

The registrar smiled at them both again, then looked back down at his book. “Now, Leopold, repeat after me: I call upon these persons, here present, to witness that I, Leopold James Fitz, do take thee, Jemma Anne Simmons, to be my lawful wedded wife.”

Fitz had turned to face her and taken both of her hands in his, and if he was bothered by the use of his first name, he didn’t show it. Instead, he fixed her with a solemn, earnest gaze and visibly inhaled before repeating his vows. Jemma kept her focus on him as she did the same, her heart picking up pace when she referred to him as her husband for the very first time.

“You have the rings?” the registrar asked.

Fitz blinked. “Ah--yes.” He let go of one of her hands to dig into his trouser pocket, and produced a shining gold band. She’d gone with him when he bought it to make sure it fit correctly, but seeing it now made her breath catch in her throat. The registrar gave him his promise vow to repeat, and Fitz took her left hand in his and held the ring up to her finger. Jemma looked from it up to his face.

“I promise to care for you above all others,” he said, his eyes bright, “to give you my love and friendship, support and comfort, and to respect and cherish you throughout our lives together.”

Jemma tore her eyes from his to look back down as he carefully slid the ring onto her finger, feeling her heart expand in her chest. The quiet conviction in his voice as he’d spoken had a calming effect on her, soothing her anxious nerves, and Jemma actually thrilled to remember that he’d told his mum that he loved her. He meant every word of his vows. He was pledging not only his friendship to her but his love, his real love, his _life_. The enormity of what she felt for him in that moment, how humbled she was by his devotion, could not be quantified in words.

She looked up to give him a breathless sort of smile as he handed her his own ring, and found that he was smiling tremulously back. She barely heard the registrar as he asked her to repeat her own promise vow, she was so caught up in Fitz’s expression, and she tried to imbue her words with as much sincerity and truth as she could. She might not be _in_ love with him, not yet, but she did love and care for him as much as she could, and she wanted him to know that, on this day of all days at least. 

Sliding the ring onto Fitz’s finger, Jemma admired the way it looked, gleaming against his skin. She’d been surprised when he’d told her he wanted a ring as well; it was a new custom he’d picked up from his friends in the army. He’d said many of them with wives had taken up wearing rings to remind themselves of their loved ones back home, and he’d liked the idea enough to buy one for himself. She could hardly fault him--it was a very sweet gesture. Seeing the ring on him now, shining to match her own, was a tactile reminder that now they were forever bound together.

Their rings secure, the registrar closed his book and smiled at them once more. “I’m happy to pronounce you husband and wife. Leopold, you may kiss your bride.”

Still smiling at her, Fitz’s face turned inexpressibly soft as held her gaze for a moment. Then he lifted his free hand to cup her cheek and leaned in to gently kiss her. It was simple and sweet and incredibly tender, bringing back memories of the morning he’d first left her, and it was over far too soon. He stayed close after he pulled away, though, resting his forehead against hers for a brief second and smiling before looking up and turning to their parents.

Her father came forward to shake Fitz’s hand and then the registrar’s, and her mother fussed over them a little, kissing both of Jemma’s cheeks and even Fitz’s. Then they went to sign their marriage license, and after that they were free to go.

Fitz was probably in the best spirits Jemma had ever seen him, his expression open and joyful as they exited the Register Office out onto the street, her hand tucked into his arm again. “The portrait studio is just a few blocks over,” he said to everyone, referring to the photographer he’d booked to take a few photos of them to commemorate the occasion. “I have an appointment, so it shouldn’t take us long.”

It was hard for Jemma to think of anything other than his presence beside her as they walked to the portrait studio, their shoulders bumping together, the pep to his stride and the smile on his face. Fitz was her husband now. They were _married_. It almost felt like a dream, the impossible happy ending to a wish she’d held onto in vain for so long: Fitz, alive and healthy, with her, with Ellie, all of them together. But it was all real and true. Her life had been a whirlwind these past few weeks but now that they were finally married, perhaps things could settle down and they could figure out how to fit together as a family.

Ellie proved to be a large source of entertainment at the portrait studio, babbling happily at everyone and generally being a ham. She even made the photographer smile when she reached out to touch his face as he tried to pose her in Mrs. Wilson’s arms. She managed to stay still long enough for a combined family photo to be taken, then stayed with Mrs. Wilson as Fitz and Jemma had one taken of just the two of them. Jemma found herself genuinely smiling as Fitz lightly grasped her arms per the photographer’s instructions and gently pulled her back against his chest. Today was a happy day, one that she would remember for a long time.

Once they were done having their pictures taken, Jemma’s parents treated everyone to lunch at Neptune, the restaurant inside the Hotel Russell on Russell Square, just a short distance from Fitz’s old flat. Fitz whispered to her that he’d heard it was designed to look exactly like the first class dining room on the _Titanic_ , something which pleased her to no end. Feeling fancy by being treated to upper-class dining on their wedding day felt like a great, but worthy, indulgence. The roast duck with black pudding was perhaps the best she’d ever had, while Fitz said his smoked mackerel and chips were excellent. Mrs. Fitz even continued to be polite, asking her about her work during the war (Jemma just said she did translations for the diplomatic corps, the same as she’d told her parents) and smiling at Ellie when she continued to babble cheerfully.

Jemma left lunch in high spirits as well, and wished she didn’t have to see Fitz go for one final time. They were actually parting ways for the evening; she still had some packing left to do and would be formally moving into their new home in Chiswick in the morning. It was unconventional, perhaps, for a newly married couple to spend their first night apart, but neither of them minded. At least, Jemma didn’t--she cared for Fitz and was still attracted to him, but didn’t know how she felt about the idea of him possibly wanting to consummate their marriage right away.

As they stood on the pavement outside the Hotel Russell, Fitz watched their parents and Mrs. Wilson fuss over Ellie for a moment before turning to her. “I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?” he asked, his tone a little shy. 

She nodded. “We’ll be over after breakfast with the rest of our things,” she replied, glancing at Ellie. “And then, well… that’ll be it.” She gave him a small smile, finding that his bashfulness was a little catching. Saying out loud that they would be living together felt like a momentous thing even despite the fact that they were married now. 

Fitz nodded, a slight smile twitching up the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, that’ll be it,” he repeated softly. He looked out at the small park in the middle of the square they were on, then said, “I’ll help you with anything you need once you get there. I’ve set all the furniture up, but if you’d like any of it moved, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Jemma’s smile grew as a beat of gratitude pulsed in her heart. He was too sweet. “I’m sure it’s all just fine,” she said.

“Well. Still.” He shrugged slightly, then reached out to take one of her hands in his. “I hope you have a good evening, and safe travels in the morning. I, um…” He ducked his head. “I’m looking forward to having you with me.” He lifted her hand to press a light kiss to the back of it, and smiled before dropping it to go say goodbye to Ellie.

Jemma turned to follow him, thoroughly charmed but also conflicted that she was his wife and he apparently hadn’t felt able to kiss her lips. A part of her appreciated the consideration, though; she still had her feelings to sort through, and a real kiss might have just complicated things.

Fitz kissed Ellie’s head and said his goodbyes; then he took his mother’s arm and they started off down the street toward the Underground station. Jemma watched them go, thinking about everything that lay in store for her and Fitz and all the things they could provide for Ellie together. A new chapter of her life was about to start, and although she was as nervous as could be expected with any sort of large change, she was also excited--she could finally start to make a life for herself and her daughter free from her parents, with her new husband by her side. It felt like the universe was finally smiling upon her, and she couldn’t wait to get started. She didn’t have long; just one more night’s sleep, and she would be there.

-:-

The next morning, however, Jemma was in a terrible mood.

Ellie had been unusually fussy since breakfast, perhaps due to the stress of cab travel, which she wasn’t used to. To make matters worse, on the drive to Chiswick her mum had started in again on all of her perceived shortcomings as a new housewife, leaving Jemma feeling cranky and irritable. By the time their hired cab pulled up outside her new house, she wanted nothing more than a few minute’s peace away from everyone and everything.

Fitz was cheerful when he opened the door to greet them, but his face immediately fell in concern when he saw the stormy look on Jemma’s face. She stalked right past him, clutching a wailing Ellie to her chest, and made for the stairs, intent on getting her daughter’s nappy changed in the hopes that might soothe her enough for a nap.

Upstairs she went straight into the back bedroom, the one they had chosen for Ellie, and barely glanced at all of the new furniture they had picked out. Instead she went to the short dresser, which they had decided could double as a changing table, and gently laid Ellie down on the blanket laid across the top. She was glad to find some clean nappies already folded in the top drawer; Fitz had evidently gone to the shops like she’d asked.

But she couldn’t spare a minute to reflect on that. Ellie was still squalling, her little face flushed red with displeasure, and Jemma set about quickly undoing the safety pins on her soiled nappy to start changing her. Then she heard her mum’s voice behind her.

“It’s after 10 o’clock,” she said, taking a few steps into the room. “She might be hungry.”

Jemma gritted her teeth and briefly closed her eyes where her mum couldn’t see, silently counting backward from five. “I know that,” she said testily. “But I’ve got to get her changed first, and then go see what Fitz has managed to get from the grocer on just his ration book.”

She could practically _hear_ her mother frown. “Are you going to have enough to feed her and yourselves?”

Pausing in the midst of peeling back Ellie’s nappy, Jemma fought the urge to stamp her foot. “ _Yes_ , mum, we’ll be fine, I’m going to register at the grocer as soon as Ellie’s settled. Now _please_ leave, you’re just making things worse.”

There was a beat of silence before she heard her mother say stiffly, “I’ll be downstairs with your father.” Then she heard her footsteps retreat down the hall.

She blew out a breath, then focused on her daughter, trying to navigate around her kicking feet as she wiped her bottom and got the fresh nappy ready. A minute later she heard a new set of footsteps approaching, and glanced over her shoulder to see Fitz hovering in the doorway.

“Your parents just left,” he said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “Your dad got your suitcases inside and your mum, ah, seemed in a bit of a huff. Is everything alright? Anything I can do to help?”

Jemma shook her head, lifting one of Ellie’s legs to get the new nappy beneath her. “No thank you, I’m fine.”

He watched her for a moment, taking in Ellie’s pitiful cries, before asking, “Are you sure?”

She stopped what she was doing and huffed. Why did no one think she was capable of handling herself? “ _Yes_ ,” she ground out. “I don’t need your help, I can manage just fine on my own. Leave me alone!”

She’d looked back at him as she snapped, and she had just enough time to see his expression turn positively stricken before she whipped back around. It made her heart drop terribly, hating that she’d done that to him, but she was too deep inside her own frustration to immediately take it back. Instead, she doubled down on her focus on Ellie, determined to get her daughter changed and settled before she had a breakdown, too.

His footsteps faded away down the hall.

He never came back.

-:-

Fitz found himself in the kitchen, leaning on the sink and staring blankly out the little window set into the wall above it. He could still hear Ellie crying upstairs, and the sound made his stomach twist into knots, catching on all the other bad feelings and insecurities swirling in his gut. 

He’d known Jemma was in a poor mood from the second he’d seen her, but he hadn’t expected her to snap at him like that. He’d never seen her get a temper before, much less lose it, and now her words were ringing in his ears and making a mockery of him.

_Leave me alone._

She’d accepted his marriage proposal but now he was afraid he’d forced her into something she didn’t truly want. She’d told him she didn’t want him to feel obligated, but what if _she_ did? What if she just wanted out from under her parents’ roof and he was the only way she could accomplish that? What if she only wanted Ellie to have a father? 

He thought of how she had looked the day before reciting her wedding vows, how her face had almost seemed to glow as she spoke, and he knew he was panicking, but Fitz couldn’t stop the intrusive thoughts from coming, from thinking the worst of himself. He’d ruined her life, all from one impulsive kiss. He wasn’t the man she wanted, needed, or deserved. Suddenly, everything looked and felt bleak and grey.

He needed to get outside before he had another bad spell.

Turning, he quickly pushed his way out of the door in the back of the kitchen and into the garden, trying to give himself some space to breathe and clear his mind.

-:- 

Fitz avoided her for the rest of the day. She knew he was avoiding her, because he somehow managed not to be in any room of the house she found herself in, or if he did, he passed through very quickly and with little comment. Jemma felt terrible for snapping at him; as soon as she’d gotten Ellie settled down and napping she’d wanted to apologize, but she couldn’t find him. Guilt had churned in her gut, but there was still much to be done, and besides--she wasn’t sure what she would say, anyway.

So once she was certain Ellie was safe and secure asleep in her cot, she took a walk to the high street to get her ration book registered with the local grocer and butcher, then bought some essential supplies for their pantry and items to make dinner with. When she got home, Fitz was in the sitting room arranging some books on the large bookshelf they’d found at an estate sale. 

“I’m home,” she called out softly, unnecessarily.

Fitz turned to look briefly back at her and nodded, a wan smile on his face, and went back to shelving her books alongside his. Jemma lingered for a moment, wanting to say something more, but the words stuck in her throat.

She spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen, arranging everything in the cupboard the way she liked and sorting through the cookware they’d also picked up at the estate sale. She could hear Fitz moving around the house, but he never came by to speak to her or ask any questions. It only compounded her guilt, especially when she served dinner--a side of roast beef and steamed vegetables that she was afraid hadn’t turned out very well--and Fitz barely spoke, concentrating on his plate and excusing himself quickly when he was finished.

The final knife in her heart came when she put Ellie down after her late evening feeding and found that Fitz had already gone to bed without her. He’d left the lamp on for her, but he was fast asleep--or was pretending to be. Looking at him, the lines of his face tense even in slumber, Jemma blinked back tears. It felt like too much in response to what had been one irritable mood, but perhaps he was so anxious to please her that he was taking her at her literal word and truly leaving her alone. It made her feel absolutely rotten, especially when she considered how happy he’d looked when she’d first arrived that morning. He’d had hope in his eyes, she realized, hope for them, and now it was gone.

She wanted to make it up to him so badly her heart ached.

Swallowing, she turned to quietly go about getting ready for bed. Their first night sharing a bed as a married couple was going to go very differently from how she’d anticipated, but for all the wrong reasons.

-:-

In the morning, Jemma woke up ahead of Fitz to take care of Ellie’s first morning meal. He stirred slightly at the shrill ring of the alarm, but otherwise didn’t move from his position on his side, still facing away from her. She hurried to silence the alarm, then stretched and sat up before resetting it for Fitz, in order to wake him up in time for work. Once she’d cleared the sleep from her eyes, she looked at him for a brief moment before standing to get dressed and take care of Ellie.

While feeding Ellie her oatmeal and mashed fruit, Jemma considered what she wanted to do. She knew Fitz normally only took tea and toast for breakfast, but she wanted to do something nice for him, as an apology--a new morning, a new, fresh start for them. She wasn’t the most adept cook yet, but surely even she could manage a proper fry-up. Or most of one, anyway. 

Once Ellie was fed and happily occupied with her plush monkey, Jemma busied herself in the kitchen again. She took stock of what they had in the cupboard and the icebox, and how far she could afford to stretch their rations. Then she got to work frying one egg, two rashers of bacon, and a few slices of tomato.

She could hear movement upstairs as she heated some tinned beans and toasted some bread, and her stomach twisted with anxiety, hoping her peace offering would go over well, and also be edible. It all looked right to her--the egg was nice and firm, the bacon wasn’t too crispy, and the tomatoes and beans smelled delicious. She plated everything to carry out to the dining room table, and had just doctored his tea the way Fitz had once said he liked it--a dash of milk and as much sugar as she dared--when she heard his feet on the stairs. 

Jemma set the tea down next to the plate and quickly straightened the knife and fork before smoothing down the skirt of her dress. “Wish Mummy luck,” she muttered at Ellie, who burbled quietly back at her.

Fitz appeared in the doorway, fully dressed for work and the briefcase he carried with him in hand, but he stopped dead when he saw her standing by the head of the table, nervously twisting her hands together next to a full plate of food. His mouth opened in surprise, and he looked from her to the food and back again, clearly at a loss.

“I’m sorry,” Jemma blurted, and he blinked at her. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, quieter. “I shouldn’t have been so cross with you. I was frazzled and my mum was needling me and I took it out on you. That was unfair of me. But I never meant to make you think that I don’t want you around, and I… I don’t want our marriage to get off to a bad start. So…” She gestured at the fry-up. “I made you breakfast.”

Fitz’s expression softened, and he set his briefcase down by the door before crossing the room to her, taking her gently by the shoulders and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. Jemma closed her eyes and breathed in at the contact, trying to let it wash away the anxiety and the guilt of the entire past day. When he pulled away from her, she opened her eyes to find him giving her a small but genuine smile, though it was also apologetic in its own right.

“Thank you, for this,” he said. “And I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have shut you out. I was just feeling…” He trailed off and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.” He squeezed her shoulders. “What have I got to be sad about when I have such a thoughtful wife and a beautiful baby daughter?”

That finally brought a smile from Jemma, her heart warming at having him refer to them as cherished family, and her mood only lightened further when Ellie babbled loudly from her high chair, as if in response to her father. The tension broken, Fitz laughed and let go of her to greet his daughter good morning, then looked back up.

“Do you have time to sit with me while I eat?” he asked. “I wouldn’t mind the company.”

Her heart melted even more. “Yes, of course I do. Let me just get a cup of tea.”

She went back to the kitchen, and once her tea was secure, Jemma joined Fitz back at the table. He’d already tucked into his food, and grinned at her around a bite of egg and tomato as she sat down, telling her it was delicious. She was humble, insisting that the meal’s edibility was due to beginner’s luck, but he insisted that it really was good.

As he ate, Fitz told Jemma what he had planned to do at work that day--a new article to start researching and writing, and a book to start reading for review. She listened to him ramble, pleased to see him so eager about his job, and by the time he’d finished eating and was ready to leave for work, she felt like they were back to the equilibrium they’d established before their wedding.

“Goodbye, Ellie girl,” he said, leaning over to kiss the top of her head. Then he went to pick up his briefcase by the door to the hall, and Jemma followed him to the front door, where he turned to her. “You’ll be alright here alone?” he asked, his brow creasing faintly with worry.

Jemma waved a hand at him. “Oh, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I’ve got Ellie to keep me busy.”

Fitz nodded, his face relaxing. “Good. I’ll see you this evening.” He looked like he wanted to say something else, or do something, but in the end he reached out to take her hand and give it a squeeze. “Goodbye, Jemma.” He smiled and opened the door to leave.

“Bye, Fitz,” she murmured, and shut the door after him. Then she took a moment to collect herself before going back to the dining room to collect their dishes and get started on the washing. She still felt a little guilty for making Fitz feel so bad, but he’d accepted her apology and by all appearances they were back to rights. And now he was off to work and she had a full day of minding the house ahead of her. She’d never thought she would be the typical housewife shipping her husband off to work while she cooked and cleaned and took care of the baby, but if this morning’s start was any indication, perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. 


	9. Chapter 9

As Jemma settled into her new home with Fitz, she also settled into a new routine. In addition to her usual habits to care for Ellie, she now had a whole house to mind, that came with its own host of chores to attend to. Her day usually began with getting Ellie up for breakfast and making Fitz his tea and toast before he dashed off to work, and then progressed to starting in on the housework. 

At first, there was a lot of organizing and setting up to be done. They didn’t have a lot, having had to start nearly from scratch and being limited on what they could buy with meager funds and their furniture coupons, but the secondhand shop and the estate sale Fitz had found had helped tremendously. They now had a full, worn but lovely china set that Jemma had cleaned and stacked carefully in the sideboard, a few Persian rugs, curtains for every room of the house, a pair of beautiful table lamps, and many other home goods that one would not think of needing until they were without them. It all helped to make their house feel not quite so sparse, along with giving it a few personal touches outside the uniformity of the utility furniture. 

When Ellie was down for naps or in her playpen, the necessary household chores needed doing. There was the washing and cleaning, which Jemma assigned to be done on Mondays and Tuesdays, and going to the grocer and the butcher on the high street for their weekly rations. The vegetable patch in the back garden needed weeding and tending to, and clothes that had grown a little threadbare needed mending. It was a great deal of work, and it gave Jemma a healthy new respect for all that Mrs. Wilson had done for her family over the years.

She even managed to find a bit of time to continue doing some translation work for her father, which he sent to her through the post. It wasn’t as often as she might have liked, but she was fiercely proud of that work, glad that she was able to contribute to the household finances even in that one small way.

Fitz appreciated it too, though he didn’t make a fuss about it, and for that she was glad. All he said was that he was happy she was able to find time to do something she enjoyed, even if it was technically work. She suspected he harbored a certain amount of guilt over confining her to the role of housewife, but she wished he didn’t. She was surprisingly content with her lot, and it wasn’t so bad: she got to spend her days with Ellie and watch her grow, and then in the evenings after dinner she would sit with Fitz by the fireplace and listen to the wireless or read books. They would discuss what had gone on in their lives that day or the things they had read about or heard, and their conversations were always interesting. If Jemma occasionally missed having the freedom of a working woman, that was no great sin; but on the whole, she felt like her life was rather complete.

The Saturday after they were married, Fitz received a letter in the post from his mum. Jemma picked it up along with the other post from where it had dropped through the mail slot in the front door and carried it into the sitting room, where he was sitting with the previous day’s edition of the _Telegraph_ , doing the crossword puzzle.

“You’ve got a letter from your mum,” she said, holding the small envelope out to him. “That’s rather quick of her, don’t you think? I wonder if she’s worried I’m not feeding you well enough.”

Fitz rolled his eyes as he set his crossword and pencil aside and accepted the letter from her. “It’s only been a few days, but I’m already eating a sight better than I did as a bachelor. No, I was expecting this.” He smiled up at her before looking down to carefully work a finger beneath the flap of the envelope and tear it open.

“Oh?” Jemma raised a curious eyebrow as she set the new edition of the _Telegraph_ down on the side table next to him.

He nodded without looking up. “It’s, um… it’s my birthday.”

Jemma nearly crumpled the remaining post in her fist as she let out a shocked gasp. “What?” she cried. “Your birthday?” When he nodded again, she put her hands on her hips. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Fitz had the grace to look a little sheepish as he shrugged lamely. “I’ve never really bothered about it before,” he said. “We didn’t celebrate when I was young. It’s always just been another day to me.”

“It’s not just another day,” Jemma insisted. “It’s your _birthday_. I can’t believe I never thought to ask when it was.”

The corner of his mouth twisted up into amused smile. “When’s _your_ birthday?”

“September 11th.”

His eyes brightened. “So not too long after me, then. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You’ll know, because my parents will undoubtedly want to visit and fuss over me,” Jemma replied. Then she wrung her hands. “Oh, but I don’t have anything for you…”

Fitz shook his head, putting a hand out. “Don’t think of it. I’ve got plenty here already to keep me happy.” He smiled again at her.

He truly was a sweet man, and it warmed her heart to know that Fitz considered their home something that made him happy, but that wasn’t the point. It didn’t feel right to let him go completely without some sort of treat on his birthday. “I want to do _something_ for you,” she said. “Oh! Maybe I can make you a special dessert for dinner.” She pressed her hands together as she thought. “A cake is out of the question, as we don’t have enough sugar saved up, but maybe there’s something else I can make for you.”

“As long as it isn’t any extra trouble,” Fitz hedged, frowning.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Jemma assured him, smiling. “I want to do this.”

Early in the evening, after she’d finished cooking a beef stew and left it to simmer in a pot, she opened her recipe book again and flipped to the desserts, looking for something special she could make Fitz. She’d made a pudding a few days earlier that had turned out well, and there were even recipes for cakes and biscuits that required little sugar, but she didn’t have enough time to bake and she wanted to try something new. Going through the pages, she finally landed upon a recipe for fruit pancakes, and her eyes lit up. It was something a little out of the ordinary and felt like a special occasion dessert--perfect for a last-minute birthday treat. She had some jam in the cupboard that she could substitute for fresh fruit, and it would remove a few steps from her cooking process. Her decision made, Jemma got to work.

She whipped up some batter using flour, milk, one egg, and a dash of salt per the book’s instructions, making sure it was all mixed together well. Then she set a saucepan out on the stove next to the stew pot and let it heat up before melting some butter in it. She frowned a bit at the amount of their butter ration that was required, but she told herself that it was worth it for Fitz’s birthday. 

Once the butter was completely melted, Jemma carefully ladled in just enough batter to cover the surface of the pan above the butter, and anxiously watched it start to bubble and pop. She had to fight the urge to continually check it with her spatula to make sure it was cooking evenly; she just wanted everything to go right. 

When the edges started to brown and the middle was bubbling less, Jemma slid her spatula beneath the thin cake and tried to flip it. She winced as a little bit of the batter splattered the side of the pan, but at least the cooked side of the pancake looked a nice golden brown. She chewed at her thumbnail as she waited for the other side to cook, and when she judged that it had been long enough she awkwardly maneuvered the finished pancake onto a waiting plate.

Then she blew out a breath. That hadn’t been so terrible. The pancake wasn’t perfectly round and the edges looked a little crispy, but hopefully Fitz wouldn’t mind.

Unfortunately, the rest of the process didn’t go as smoothly. She had trouble flipping the pancakes, they tore, she lightly burned a few sides, or they were misshapen. Jemma moaned quietly to herself as she spooned out jam and rolled the pancakes up, knowing she’d made a hash of them and utterly failed in her mission to make Fitz something nice for his birthday, but she didn’t want to let the food go to waste. Maybe they would at least be somewhat edible.

She was mortified to serve the pancakes to him alongside the stew and potatoes she’d made, but Fitz seemed delighted. “These look wonderful,” he said, carefully serving two onto his plate once he’d finished his stew. “I can’t remember the last time I had pancakes. Did you use the strawberry jam?”

“Yes,” Jemma said nervously. “I know you like it.” Then she inhaled quietly. “You don’t have to be kind just to spare my feelings, Fitz. I know they’re horrible. They’re burnt, look at them.” She nodded at the pancakes he’d selected, both of which were distinctly browned on the outside.

Fitz shrugged. “I don’t mind if they’re a little crisp.” He cut into one of the pancakes with the side of his fork, then tried a bite. He hummed as he chewed, and after he swallowed, he smiled brightly at her. “It’s delicious. It tastes just fine. Thank you, Jemma.”

As he dug into the rest of his pancakes, the knot of anxiety in Jemma’s chest loosened slightly. Maybe he really did like them, and she’d managed to do a good thing. Or he was just choking them down for her sake. Either way, he was a very kind man, and she told herself she would be a much better cook by the time his birthday rolled around again in a year.

The idea of still being with Fitz in a year and beyond was still an abstract concept to her, even if she logically knew that marriage meant for life. But that was something she wasn’t eager to contemplate at the moment, so she pushed it aside in order to focus on eating her own slightly burnt dessert.

Fitz was right. It really was rather good.

-:-

On Wednesday of the following week, one of their neighbors came by to call on Jemma.

“I’m so sorry I haven’t been by sooner,” the woman said, her face apologetic. “But I’ve just been so busy around the house. I’m sure you know how it can be.” She’d introduced herself as Harriet Stewart and was a slight, middle-aged woman with short chestnut hair and a kind face. Jemma liked her immediately. “I’ve brought something for you.” She hefted the small basket she was carrying. “Eggs from the chickens we keep in our garden. I would do swaps with the lady who lived here before you, trading eggs for vegetables or apples from your tree. I know the apples aren’t ripe yet, but I thought I’d bring these as a belated housewarming gift.”

Jemma’s face lit up. “Oh, that’s so kind of you, thank you so much,” she said, taking the proffered basket. “I wish I had some vegetables to give you in return, but I’ve only just finished weeding them and getting them growing properly again. Would you like to come in?”

“Oh, yes, thank you.” Harriet bustled inside, and Jemma led her to the kitchen so she could put the eggs in the icebox.

“I’ll be more than happy to share some apples once they’re ripe,” Jemma said, nodding toward the door window, where the fruit tree was visible in their back garden. “And any of the vegetables too, provided I don’t kill them.” She grimaced a bit self-deprecatingly. “I’m very new to the whole tending gardens business.”

Harriet laughed. “Oh, that patch is a hardy bunch, you’ll do fine. Just keep them watered and free of weeds and they’ll grow on their own.” She turned to look back at Jemma. “Have you had a chance to meet any of the other neighbors?”

Jemma shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not. We’re still getting settled and I didn’t know if anyone would appreciate me bringing a baby round.”

Harriet’s face brightened. “A baby! That’s right, Peter told me he saw you out the other day with a pram. What’s their name?”

“Eleanor,” Jemma replied, smiling proudly. “But we call her Ellie. You can meet her if you like, she’s just in here.” She led Harriet out of the kitchen and down the hall to the sitting room, where Ellie was sitting up inside her playpen, clacking a couple of toy blocks together. She looked up at the sound of their entrance and held one of the blocks up toward her mother.

“Oh, isn’t she a darling!” Harriet gushed as Jemma bent over to pick Ellie up. “How old is she?”

“Getting close to seven months,” Jemma replied as she settled her daughter on her hip. Ellie immediately reached for her hair, but she brushed it back over her shoulder. “And she really is a darling, she’s such a happy baby and easy to care for, most of the time.”

Harriet smiled as she watched Ellie give up on Jemma’s hair and shove a few fingers into her mouth instead. “She does seem very sweet and calm. Not at all like my Nicholas, he was terribly fussy.” She laughed, full of good humor. “How long were you and your husband married before you had her?”

“Um--” Jemma paused, suddenly unsure what to say. She wanted to be truthful, because she despised the lie her mother had put forth about her and Fitz, but at the same time she was still afraid of the reaction being honest would bring. She wanted this woman to like her. The last thing Fitz needed was to come home and discover she’d caused their entire street to shun them when they hadn’t even been there a month.

“A bit,” she said at length, before her silence could grow awkward. She hated herself for perpetuating her mother’s fabrication, but it was done now. “We, um--we decided to move here when Fitz--my husband--when he came home from the war because it felt like a better place to raise a family than where we were before, closer to the city center.”

Harriet nodded sagely. “Things do move more leisurely here in Chiswick. I think you’ll like it here, for both you and the baby.” At Jemma’s grateful smile, she added, “How did you and your husband meet?”

“We met at a service club near Piccadilly,” Jemma replied, relieved to be able to tell the truth about something at least. “It was rather a whirlwind romance.” 

Fortunately, Harriet took her at face value and didn’t question her overly bright smile and nervous fidgeting with the hem of Ellie’s frock. “War will make things like that happen,” was all she said, a nostalgic tint to her eyes.

They chatted about other, simpler things for a little while longer before Harriet left to go back home, promising to bring her husband over one evening soon so they could all properly meet. But the matter of Jemma’s white lie lingered in her mind for the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening, long after Fitz had returned home from work and they’d eaten dinner. Once she’d put Ellie down for the night and they were both settled in their armchairs in the sitting room, she decided to bring it up.

“Fitz,” she said, closing the book she’d been attempting to read, “can I talk to you about something?”

He set his own book down in his lap and looked at her with eyes that seemed to be faintly wide with alarm. “Of course,” he replied, sounding a little wary.

Jemma wondered about that--she didn’t think she’d sounded unreasonable--but took a deep breath and pushed on. “I was just wondering what we should tell people. About us,” she added, when his expression turned quizzical. “One of our neighbors stopped by today and she asked how long you and I had been married and I just sort of… not _lied_ , not really, but I didn’t tell the truth, either.” Her face twisted uncomfortably. “It just made me think of all the lies my mum told her friends to make me more-- _acceptable_ , and how I wished I could tell them the truth. But when the moment came for me, I couldn’t.” She sighed. “What do you think we should do in the future, if anyone else asks?”

Fitz’s face had relaxed as she’d explained what was bothering her, and now he looked thoughtful. “What would _you_ like to tell people?” he asked. “What do you feel comfortable with?”

Jemma frowned, twisting her hands together in her lap. “I want to be honest. Anything else doesn’t really feel right.”

“Are you sure?” Fitz prodded gently. “Your mother’s story might be better for you.”

She made a face. “I don’t think I can bear it,” she said unhappily. “Every time my mum told someone that my husband was dead and I saw the pity in their eyes, it made me feel sick because it was all a lie--my mum was too ashamed of me and Ellie to tell the truth, and I didn’t know if you would have married me anyway. It felt like a gross misuse of your memory.” She looked down at her lap. “Even if you turned out to not actually be dead.”

Fitz watched her for a moment before speaking again. “Well, you don’t have to wonder about that anymore, at least.” he said quietly. “Because here we are. I did marry you.”

The solemnity in his gaze was a little too much for Jemma to take, and she looked away. “But I didn’t know that at the time,” she insisted, shaking her head. “So it doesn’t change how I felt. Lying was wrong.”

“I think your mum is only trying to protect you and Ellie,” he said carefully.

She scoffed. “She’s ashamed,” she reiterated bitterly. “She doesn’t want anyone to know that I got pregnant by a man I’d only just met. It would tarnish her precious reputation.”

Fitz didn’t say anything for another minute, but when he did, his voice was soft but kind. “Would you really want the alternative?” he asked. “I--I know how single mums are treated. Would you want people behaving toward you poorly, casting you out? Or Ellie?”

Something about the way he spoke made it sound as though he were speaking from experience, and Jemma suddenly remembered his father and how he’d left when Fitz was young. She looked up at him and found that he was watching her with a hint of sadness and regret in his eyes. Feeling slightly chastened, she wasn’t sure what to say.  He smiled wryly and lifted one shoulder in a light shrug.

“I don’t think I’ll ever know the full extent of how my mum was treated after my father left,” he said. “But the other children at school were terrible to me. They said awful, nasty things about my mum, my father, even me. Individuals can be kind, I’ve found, but people are cruel.” He tilted his head. “Do you really want that for Ellie?”

“Of course not,” Jemma whispered immediately. The thought of their daughter facing scorn and ridicule turned her stomach. “I just--I wish we didn’t have to lie to everyone in order to be considered respectable.”

Swallowing, Fitz set his book aside on the little end table and got up to come kneel before her, taking her hands in his and looking up at her with a sweet, earnest expression. “Jemma,” he said, “I honestly don’t mind if you--if _we_ \--tell people we were married before I left for France. I really don’t. It’s only a small lie now, anyway, and if it saves you and Ellie both from trouble and grief, well--it’ll be worth it to me.”

Once again, Jemma was left without words. She could see the inherent wisdom in what Fitz was saying, and logically she knew that her life would have been much harder if her mother hadn’t taken her in and lied; it just ran at odds with her need to be honest and true. And here was Fitz offering to continue that story with no resentment or ill feelings, only a desire to protect his family. She felt a lump rise in her throat and her heart burn, unexpectedly emotional at the evidence of what he was willing to do for them. Somehow, it felt different coming from him than it did from her mother. Fitz at least, she knew, was most definitely not ashamed of her.

“Alright,” she finally said. “We can tell people we were married before you left.”

“Are you sure?” Fitz asked.

She nodded, her decision settling in her bones. “Yes, I am. I don’t mind.”

He smiled and gently squeezed her hands before lifting one to press a light kiss to the back. “If anyone asks,” he said, “we’ll just tell them we had a whirlwind romance. That’s not stretching the truth very much, either.”

Jemma thought about how barely a month had passed between their reunion and their wedding, and what she had told Harriet earlier that day. Fitz wasn’t wrong--they really had done a fast, whirlwind romance. She didn’t regret it, though. A part of her just wished theirs had been a more traditional courtship, and not the game of catch-up that life and circumstances had forced them to play.

-:-

The last Saturday in August was a beautiful, sunny, warm day and Jemma was feeling a little cooped up inside the house, so Fitz suggested they take Ellie to Turnham Green for a picnic lunch. Jemma was instantly energized by the idea, and immediately hurried into the kitchen to put together a small spread of sandwiches and fruit to put in a basket to bring with them. 

Once everything was packed and ready to go, they settled Ellie in her pram with her stuffed monkey and headed for the Green. Jemma had a pep in her step as she pushed the pram, smiling up at the puffy white clouds in the sky, already feeling better for being out in the sun. Next to her, Fitz was strolling along with his free hand in his trouser pocket, occasionally looking down at Ellie and smiling too. She was out and about, she had her daughter, and she had Fitz. It felt like the beginning to a perfect afternoon.

It didn’t take them long to reach the high street from their house, and from there it was a short walk to Turnham Green. As they approached the corner of the wedge-shaped park, Jemma could already see that there were plenty of people already there taking advantage of the pleasant weather, couples and families spread out across the grass in groups.

“Looks like we weren’t the only people with a brilliant idea,” she said, smiling at Fitz.

He shrugged gamely. “I just hope we can find a nice spot to spread our rug.”

Entering the park, they had to pass by a small stone monument standing right on the corner by the pavement. Jemma had often wondered what it was, but she’d never had the occasion to pass close enough to see for herself. Now she slowed down, bringing the pram to a halt so she could get a better look at it. It was a small obelisk up on a little plinth, atop a short mound of earth and surrounded by a thin wire fence. A few dried wreaths sat at the base.

“I’ve always been curious about this,” Jemma said, letting go of the pram’s handlebar and drifting closer to it. Upon reading the inscription engraved into the plinth, she found that it was a memorial to the men of Chiswick who had perished in the first War. “It’s a war memorial,” she called back to Fitz, who was still standing by the pram. “What a nice thing for them to do, in remembrance. I wonder if they’ll do something for the war we’ve just had.”

“Dunno,” Fitz said shortly. When Jemma looked back at him, he was holding their picnic basket and rug in both hands and his face looked impassive, but there was a slight stiffness to the line of his shoulders that hadn’t been there a moment before. Belatedly, she realized that bringing up war in any shape or form might upset him, and so she immediately straightened up to come rejoin him.

“Maybe they will, or maybe they won’t,” she said, smiling in an effort to relax him without making it obvious. “But let’s not think about that now. Come on, let’s go pick out a spot for lunch.”

It didn’t take them long to find a spot that wasn’t too close to anyone else enjoying the afternoon on the Green, and Jemma helped Fitz get their rug spread out before picking Ellie up from her pram and setting her down on it. Then they treated themselves to the lunch that Jemma had made, taking turns feeding Ellie soft bits of fruit and sandwich spread and drinking from the thermos of water they’d brought. It was very relaxing, sitting beneath the blue sky with two of her favorite people in the world, listening to other children laugh and play as they ran around their parents, being able to let go of her responsibilities for a little bit. Fitz looked happy too, his curls ruffling in the light breeze, gently sitting Ellie back up when she leaned forward too far and toppled over. It was all horribly domestic, a true family outing, but Jemma didn’t mind it in the least. This was the sort of thing she wanted for them, after all: growing together, becoming closer.

Once they had finished their lunch and set the remains aside in the basket, Jemma set Ellie back in the center of the rug to play. She seemed to be in a crawling mood, having just recently mastered the skill, and immediately fell forward onto her pudgy hands and knees to try and escape off the rug. 

Fitz laughed. “Where are you going, silly girl?” he asked affectionately, reaching out to gently pull her back onto the rug. As soon as he let go she was off again, determinedly heading for the grass, and this time Jemma laughed as well. 

“She’s got her heart set on something,” she observed, watching as Fitz sat their daughter up in the middle of the rug again, and passed him her stuffed monkey.

“I think it’s being out in the open air and the sun,” Fitz guessed, grinning. He dangled the monkey in front of her, trying to catch her attention. “She can smell freedom. Makes me wonder how much of a handful she’ll be when she starts walking.”

Jemma smiled, her heart warming to see Fitz so relaxed and natural around Ellie. She knew he hadn’t had much time yet to adjust to being a father, but he’d taken to it like a duck to water; his love for Ellie was plain to see. It filled her with a happiness she felt like she couldn’t possibly contain.

“She’s just curious,” she said, still smiling. The monkey finally distracted Ellie from trying to crawl away, and she reached out to grab it from Fitz’s hands, hugging it close to her chest. Satisfied that she was occupied, Fitz reached for his camera, which he’d brought with him and had left sitting by the picnic basket. He held it up to his eye, one hand adjusting the focus on the lens.

Jemma watched him take a couple of photos of Ellie sitting up with the plush monkey; then he shifted to roll onto his stomach, squinting through the viewfinder of the camera. He was more on a level with Ellie now, obviously lining up a shot of her with the rest of the Green and its church behind her. He clicked the shutter a few times, and Jemma smiled. She couldn’t help but wonder if this was the same type of care he put into of all of his photography work, even during the war.

Fitz belly-crawled a bit closer. Noticing him, Ellie burbled and reached one small hand out toward the camera. He smiled and held it out of her way, and as the silver on the casing glinted in the sunlight, Jemma noticed that there was a crack running down the front.

“Oh, what happened to your camera?” she asked, pointing to it.

Fitz lowered the camera from his face, turning it up so he could see what she was indicating. A small crease formed between his eyebrows, and he said, “Just some wear and tear. It still works fine, though.”

 _Just some wear and tear._ Jemma doubted he would be so careless with his camera that he would damage it, or do any sort of regular activity that would be enough to put a crack in the metal. But she was afraid to ask him if it had happened during the war, because she didn’t want to upset him.

Groaning as he pushed back up to sit cross-legged, Fitz gestured at Ellie. “Here, do you mind sitting her in your lap? I’d like to get a picture of the both of you.”

Jemma shook herself from her thoughts and smiled. “No, of course not.” She adjusted her knees beneath her skirt so she could rest Ellie comfortably on them, then picked her up and sat her down. Ellie squirmed a little, but was otherwise complacent. Glancing up at Fitz, Jemma noticed he didn’t look discomfited or perturbed, so maybe bringing up the fault in his camera hadn’t bothered him much after all.

“You don’t have to look directly at the camera,” he said, waving a hand at her as he looked through the viewfinder. “Just--act natural. Look at Ellie, maybe.”

Jemma huffed out a quiet laugh and looked down at their daughter, smiling. She wasn’t quite sure how to ‘act natural’, but she reached for Ellie’s hands and let her small fingers curl around her larger ones, holding her hands up. She heard the camera shutter click a few more times.

“Perfect,” Fitz said. “I think I might go get a few shots of the church, too. It makes a nice backdrop. I’ll be right back.”

She watched him get up to leave, then contented herself with focusing on Ellie. When he came back a few minutes later, Jemma had her on the rug facing her, and they were playing a little game. Jemma would pat the rug in front of her and wait for Ellie to reach out and grab her hands, and then she would yank them away. It was a bit like peekaboo for hands, and Ellie found it very entertaining; she was giggling up a storm, her face lighting up every time Jemma pulled her hands away and gave an exaggerated gasp. Fitz smiled as he sat back down next to her, taking another photograph or two before setting his camera to one side.

Jemma smiled back at him, then turned her attention back to Ellie and lightly thumped the rug before snatching her hands away again. Ellie let out a particularly loud, excited shriek, and next to her, Fitz flinched hard. She looked over at him, and his face was twisted uncomfortably, almost like he was in pain. “Are you alright?” she asked, concerned.

Fitz gave his head a little shake and blinked, as if he was trying to clear it, and his expression relaxed. “No, yeah, I’m fine,” he said, blinking again. “She just--startled me, is all.”

In front of her, Ellie succeeded in grabbing her hands. Jemma turned back to her with a wide smile. “Oh, look at you! Sneaky girl, you got me.”

Ellie laughed again, squeezing her hands around Jemma’s fingers and pulling on them. She only put up a light resistance, letting her daughter feel like she had the advantage, and was still smiling at the way it was clearly amusing her, making her giggle and smile, when a voice above them drew her attention.

“Oh, what an adorable little girl you have. She’s beautiful.”

Jemma and Fitz both looked up to see an older woman who was passing by, and had evidently been drawn closer by the sound of Ellie’s laughter. She was smiling at them with a fond, faintly nostalgic shine in her eyes; maybe she was remembering her own children when they were young.

“Oh, thank you,” Jemma said politely, as Fitz murmured his own thanks. “That’s very kind of you.” 

“You make a beautiful family, too, the three of you,” the woman added. “But you look so young. How long have you been married?”

Jemma bristled slightly at the implication that they were too young for anything, but Fitz immediately replied, “Long enough to have her.”

She looked at him. He had nodded down at Ellie and was smiling, the words sounding like they had fallen from his lips so easily. There wasn’t a trace of nervousness or a hint of a lie in his expression. He looked completely genuine.

The older woman laughed, her eyes twinkling. “Eager to start a family, I see. My girl Ellen was the same, she was married to her soldier all in a weekend and expecting not long after.” She gestured to Ellie. “Cherish her while you can.”

She turned to head off back to wherever she had been going, and Jemma looked back to Fitz again. He smiled at her, then turned his attention to Ellie, who was still tugging on Jemma’s hands.

“I wonder if we could get her to stand yet,” he said, reaching for her and knowing full well that she wasn’t old enough to stand on her own. He got his hands beneath her arms and hefted her up, trying to get her feet to settle flat on the rug, which made her burble with delight. “Come on, Ellie girl. Can you stand up?”

Jemma kept thinking about the ease with which Fitz had delivered his little coverup--not quite a lie--about Ellie for the rest of the afternoon, even as they packed up their rug, put Ellie in her pram, and walked back home. It seemed he really didn’t mind telling people they’d been married for longer than they actually had been, and that lifted a weight off her shoulders. It was one thing for him to tell her that he didn’t mind it, but to see it actually put into practice was something else.

She couldn’t help but think of the other things he did for her, too: the mornings that he insisted on helping to feed Ellie before he left for work so she could get a bite to eat herself, the way he always happily and eagerly greeted them when he arrived home in the evenings, how he almost never grumbled about the alarm waking him in the middle of the night for Ellie’s early morning meals. She thought about the few occasions he’d come with her to the high street on the weekend and passersby had commented on what a beautiful child Ellie was, and how Fitz had puffed up with pride. She thought about how unfailingly kind he was to her, and how he never pushed her for anything physical, though he might have been well within his rights as her husband. 

He’d told his mum that he loved her. She would never forget that: the firm conviction in his voice as he’d spoken, but also the softness, too. A softness for her. Which meant he must still love her now, even though she hadn’t confessed to having feelings of any sort for him--because she couldn’t. She liked him very much; she just wasn’t sure if it was love, and she didn’t want to hurt him by admitting to a depth of feeling she wasn’t certain of. What she felt for Fitz was still a very confused mess of emotions crowding up her chest, and she didn’t know how to make sense of any of it. She _wanted_ to give him a declaration, but she couldn’t. Not until she sorted herself out.

Not for the first time, Jemma considered that Fitz was probably a better man than she deserved. She just wished she knew what the key was to decoding her heart, so she could finally make herself worthy of him in return.


	10. Chapter 10

Jemma was in a state of mild panic.

Fitz had been watching her fly around the house from one room to the next all morning, dusting every surface she could reach, straightening blankets and cushions, making sure everything was arranged neatly and just so in the sitting and dining rooms, and cleaning the kitchen until it was spotless even though she was also in the middle of cooking. It was her birthday, and her parents were coming to visit for the first time since she had moved in. She hadn’t yet said as much, but Fitz knew that she wanted their home to look perfect so her parents--her mother especially--couldn’t find fault with it. She wanted to prove that she’d been succeeding as a housewife despite their doubts.

He’d offered to help at first but Jemma had shooed him away, saying she could handle it herself and that the best way to help her would be to keep an eye on Ellie. He was quickly learning that his wife was fiercely independent and insisted on doing things herself if possible. It was something he loved about her. So he left her to her chores without a fuss and took their daughter, retreating to the sitting room, getting her settled with her stuffed monkey on one end of their small sofa while he took up the other with a book to read. 

He could hear the sounds of Jemma bustling about, her footsteps going from room to room and dishes clinking in the kitchen. He kept her whereabouts in the back of his mind as he turned the pages of his book, and as he watched Ellie play with her monkey, babbling to herself. The enticing smell of something sweet and delicious baking had drifted in from the kitchen earlier, catching his attention, and he wondered what she’d chosen to make. Jemma’s parents were going to treat them to lunch, but she had wanted to make an early dessert for everyone to eat together before they left. 

Footsteps suddenly came thumping down the hall, and a second later Jemma hurried in brandishing the carpet sweeper, her apron tied securely around her waist.

“I’ll just run this over the rug one more time,” she said, more to herself than to Fitz. “An extra spot of cleaning couldn’t hurt.”

As she started running the sweeper vigorously back and forth over the rug that covered the hardwood floor, Fitz decided against asking if it was truly necessary. She had a bit of a manic gleam to her eyes, and he didn’t want to say anything that would encourage her to snap at him again. Instead, he marked his place in his book and closed it in his lap. “When did you say your parents would be here?” he asked.

Jemma briefly paused her work to squint at the small clock on the fireplace mantel. “They said they would come round near 11:00,” she replied, then screwed her face up into an anxious grimace. “Oh, I haven’t got much time left and I still need to set the tart out…” She looked down at the carpet sweeper a bit helplessly, like she couldn’t decide what she wanted to do, then groaned and picked it up, heading back into the hall.

Fitz watched her go, frowning, then made a decision. Setting his book aside on the sofa cushion beside him, he looked at Ellie. She was firmly occupied with her own foot, grabbing at it with both of her hands and trying in vain to pull it up toward her mouth. Smiling faintly and assured that she would be alright if he let her be for a moment, he got up and left the sitting room for the kitchen.

He came out into the hall just in time to see Jemma rush out of the kitchen bearing the tart in her oven mitt-clad hands, going straight into the dining room. He followed her, watching as she set the pie dish down on a trivet in the center of the table, adjusting it so it sat perfectly neat and straight. Then she took a step back and pulled off her mitts, blowing out a breath. 

“Right,” she said. “It’s still warm but should be cool enough to eat. Now I should just…” She looked around, crumpling the mitts in her fists, until her eyes landed on the sideboard. “I should run the duster over the sideboard again. Just to make sure I didn’t miss a spot.”

She was unraveling. Fitz hated to see her like this, so worried and fretful over what her parents might think of her and their home, and his earlier concerns over provoking her disappeared. He stepped in front of the door to block her path as she tried to leave, and gently took her by the shoulders. “Jemma,” he said, as kindly as he could, “the sideboard looks fine. The whole house looks fine. You’ve done a brilliant job getting it ready for guests. Please, just… try to slow down a bit.” He rubbed his thumbs over her shoulders in what he hoped was a soothing, reassuring gesture. “Everything’s going to be fine, you’ll see.”

Jemma looked up at him for a moment, her eyes wide and shining. Then she slumped, hanging her head. “I just want everything to be perfect,” she mumbled, staring at a spot in the center of his chest. “I don’t want them to be able to find anything wrong with--with the life we’ve made here.”

Her words made a hopeful joy bloom in his heart--the use of the plural _we_ , the reference to their life together--but Fitz set it aside to keep his focus on her. “It doesn’t have to be perfect to still be good,” he said. “Besides, the only person you need concern yourself with as far as the house goes is me, and I think you’re doing wonderfully.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “Try not to worry about what your mum thinks, yeah?”

Jemma chewed her bottom lip for a moment before giving him a hesitant smile in return. “I’ll try,” she said.

Unable to help himself, he leaned forward to place a light kiss on her forehead. He’d just pulled away, finding her eyes closed and her lips parted, when the doorbell rang. Her eyes snapped open.

“That’s them!” she cried. She pushed past him to run back to the kitchen, untying her apron as she went. Fitz stood where he was for a second, blinking, before going to the sitting room for Ellie. She babbled happily at his entrance, letting go of her foot to hold her arms out to him as he strode over to the sofa, and he smiled at her as he picked her up. 

“Let’s be on our best behavior, yeah?” he said quietly, settling her in his arms. “For Mummy. I know she’ll appreciate it.”

Ellie reached out a hand to pat clumsily at his cheek, and his smile widened. Then he turned and walked back out into the hall.

He met Jemma there, who was patting down her hair and smoothing out invisible wrinkles in her dress as she returned from the kitchen. He smiled at her again, and her expression in response was nervous as she moved past him to go answer the door.

“Mum! Dad! Hello!” she exclaimed as she opened the door, greeting her parents. A small chorus of hellos rose up as her parents said their greetings in return, and Jemma stood back from the door to let them in. Fitz waited just outside the doorway to the sitting room and watched as Dr. and Mrs. Simmons bustled inside, shedding their coats and hanging them up on the coat rack. Mrs. Simmons turned to her daughter to give her a hug and kiss her cheeks, and Dr. Simmons came over to Fitz.

“Good to see you, Fitz,” he said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “How are things at the paper?”

“They’re good, sir, thank you,” Fitz replied, pleased that Jemma’s father was asking after him. “I’m keeping busy.”

Dr. Simmons nodded. “Glad to hear it,” he said, just as Mrs. Simmons came to join them.

“And here’s Ellie,” she cooed, reaching out to gently tweak the baby’s arm where Fitz was holding her. “My goodness, I swear she’s grown since the last time we saw her. Though, is it me or does she look just a bit thin?”

Fitz glanced at Jemma, who was hovering behind her mother; her lips thinned slightly. “The midwife said she was perfectly healthy on her last visit,” she said. “She’s eating very well.”

“Jemma was a slender baby too, wasn’t she?” Dr. Simmons asked, inclining his head towards his daughter. “Ellie looks just like I remember her.”

Mrs. Simmons fussed a bit with the sleeve of Ellie’s dress. “Oh, well, I suppose she does.”

“So!” Jemma’s voice was just a touch too bright as she clasped her hands together at her waist. “I made an apple tart for us to eat before we go for lunch. Would you like to have some?”

Her father’s face lit up in interest. “Oh, yes, I would. You mentioned in your last letter that you were going to cook. I’d love to try it.”

Jemma smiled gratefully at him, then gestured for everyone to follow her into the dining room. “It’s nothing fancy,” she explained as her parents each took a seat at the table, “but I think it turned out well.”

Fitz could hear the slight nervous tone to her voice, and glanced over at her as he got Ellie settled in her high chair. Going by looks alone, he thought she’d done splendidly: she’d arranged the apple slices rather artfully in circles spinning out from the center of the dish and folded the crust up over the outer edges, which had baked to a perfect golden brown. It looked like something that could go along with a recipe book, or win a ribbon at a village fête. Jemma took a knife to cut into it, serving everyone a slice on small plates that she passed around and pouring tea before sitting down with her own piece. Everyone dug in, humming to themselves at the taste of the dessert.

“This is a good tart,” Mrs. Simmons said after a moment, once she’d swallowed a bite, “but it’s a bit… well, _tart_.”

Looking at Jemma again, Fitz saw her jaw go tight. He could taste a hint of lemon mingling with the apple flavor, a luxury he knew she had splurged on for the occasion, but he didn’t think it was _bad_. “I think it’s delicious,” he said around a mouthful of apple and flaky crust, and hurried to finish chewing. Jemma shot him a grateful look across the table, and he smiled back at her.

“Is this your first time making one?” Dr. Simmons asked, cutting into his slice again with the side of his fork. When Jemma nodded, her mouth too full to properly reply, he added, “It’s very good for a first try.” She looked as though she wasn’t sure if she should take that as a compliment or not--Fitz felt like she should--so he jumped in again to help boost her spirits.

“Jemma’s a wonderful cook,” he said, setting down his teacup. “She really makes the most out of our rations. I’m eating _much_ better than I did as a bachelor.”

Dr. Simmons nodded in approval as he chewed, and Jemma’s expression brightened even more. She took another bite of her tart with a smile on her face, and Fitz decided that speaking up was worth it, just to make her feel better. He truly didn’t understand why her mother was so frequently critical of her; in some ways, it reminded him of how his father had treated him as a young boy, and he hated it. It was the last thing he wanted for Jemma, but he felt there was very little he could do about it.

“Oh!” Mrs. Simmons said suddenly, clearly changing the subject. “Jemma, darling, you’ll never believe who I ran into out at the shops the other day.” When Jemma merely raised her eyebrows in a silent question, indicating that she should go on, she continued, “I was at the post office and saw Edna Abernathy and her son. You remember Milton, don’t you?”

Jemma nodded, swallowing a sip of tea. “Oh, yes, Milton from school,” she said, setting her cup down. “How are he and his mum?”

“They’re both well, Milton’s grown so much since I saw him last,” Mrs. Simmons said. She turned toward Fitz. “He was one of Jemma’s schoolmates, from primary up until she left for university. They always worked together on their projects, like two peas in a pod. Jemma showed a great aptitude for science.”

“But I decided I loved languages more,” Jemma explained. “So that’s what I chose to read at Cambridge.”

She smiled at him, and Fitz found himself grateful. If it hadn’t been for that decision, she might not have gone to work for the government and they wouldn’t have crossed paths that night in Piccadilly, and he wouldn’t have her or his beautiful daughter now. Smiling back at her, he reached for the tart dish to cut a second tiny slice for his plate, then quietly scooted his chair closer to Ellie’s so he could feed her bits of it.

“Milton went to Cambridge too, you know,” Mrs. Simmons said, turning her attention back to Jemma. “It’s a wonder you never ran into each other there.”

Jemma lifted one shoulder in a small shrug as she continued to eat her tart. “There are so many colleges there, and of course he would have been in a different one than I was. It’s not so unusual.”

Mrs. Simmons hummed thoughtfully. “Well, he decided to stay with science. He’s a chemical engineer now, at a factory in the city. Edna is so proud. He stayed home on reserve during the war and is doing very well for himself. Hasn’t married yet, he said he’s been a bit too focused on his work to find a sweetheart.” She laughed. “He asked about you.”

Fitz looked up from where he was mashing an apple slice for Ellie with the flat side of his fork, looking between Jemma and her mother. Jemma was listening politely, but her mother had a sparkle to her eyes, as if she was divulging a juicy bit of gossip, something she was sure Jemma would want to hear. But Jemma just frowned.

“Why in the world would Milton ask after me?” she said, looking perplexed. “We haven’t seen each other in years.”

Mrs. Simmons took a sip of her tea and shrugged, a little _too_ innocently, or at least Fitz thought so. “You were just such good friends in school,” she said lightly. “He wanted to know how you were doing. I gave him your address in case he ever wanted to write or come round for a visit.”

“Oh--well--that’s nice,” Jemma said, rather nonplussed, and picked up her teacup again to take another sip. But Fitz had a sinking suspicion that he knew what her mother was trying to do. She didn’t approve of him, most likely, and so was trying to prod her daughter in the direction of another man who _did_ meet her approval, despite Jemma already being married. And why should her mother approve of him? He wasn’t much to speak of. He wasn’t well off, not the way they were, and he was a wreck, though he was taking great pains to hide it from everyone around him. He was nervous, jittery, anxious all the time, and Jemma deserved someone whole, someone so much better than him--

He bit down hard on his lip in a bid to try and stop the tide of dark thoughts that threatened to flood his mind. Desperate for a distraction, he turned back to mashing the apple slices on his plate, making sure they were soft enough to feed to Ellie. Giving her bits and pieces of the treat and watching her face light up in delight at the taste went a long way toward easing his downward slide, and after a few minutes he was able to smile back at her, feeling the vise-like grip around his chest loosen a little.

However, Fitz was drawn from his fog of concentration when he realized that Mrs. Simmons was speaking directly to him. He blinked, looking away from where he’d just given Ellie another bit of mashed apple, and focused on her. She was watching him expectantly, and across the table from him, Jemma looked like she was holding herself back from speaking. “Sorry, what?” he said.

“Do you do this very much?” Mrs. Simmons asked seriously, gesturing at him and his plate.

Fitz looked down at it, and the fork he was holding up. “What?” he repeated, baffled. “This? Do I feed her?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Simmons nodded. “Do you have to take care of the baby often?”

He glanced at Jemma, whose cheeks were splotchy pink, then looked back at her mother. “Er, sometimes?” he said.

Mrs. Simmons turned to Jemma. “Are you have trouble taking care of Ellie on your own?” she asked, sounding concerned. “I knew you might have some issues without Mrs. Wilson’s help--”

Jemma, who had flushed an even deeper crimson, spluttered in shocked embarrassment. “No!” she cried. “I’m doing just fine! It’s just--she--”

“I wanted to,” Fitz cut in, trying to save Jemma before she became even more upset. Both women stopped and looked at him, and even Dr. Simmons, who had been engrossed in his tea and dessert, looked up. Fitz took in a breath and continued. “I just thought--it’s Jemma’s birthday, and you’d want to spend some time visiting with her, so--I’d take care of Ellie so you could.”

Mrs. Simmons blinked. “Oh,” she said, sounding a little surprised, and Dr. Simmons simply nodded like he approved. But best of all was the way Jemma relaxed, her shoulders dropping and the angry color fading from her cheeks, and the way she smiled at him like he’d hung the moon. He let the warmth of it settle over him like a comforting blanket, along with the sense that he’d done something right. Then Ellie smacked the wooden tray of her high chair and let out a loud babble, put out that her father was no longer feeding her delicious spiced apples. Fitz flinched, but immediately turned back to her with a smile on his face.

“Alright, my girl, I’m sorry for ignoring you,” he apologized with a chuckle, gathering a little more of the syrup up on his fork for her to try. He heard Jemma’s gentle laugh as Ellie immediately opened her mouth, eagerly awaiting another taste of the sweet dessert, and he felt a rush of affection for both his wife and his daughter, knowing he’d managed to content them both.

After that, the conversation moved on to more mundane topics, and everyone finished their tea and dessert without any further remarks or observations that upset or embarrassed Jemma. Once their plates were clear and Jemma had taken them to the kitchen to wash later, her parents presented her with gifts. The ladies from the knitting club had made her a soft woollen jumper and cardigan set in a mild green color that Fitz thought would look lovely on her, and her mother had bought her a new pair of gloves for the winter. Both of her parents also got her a tin of her favorite sweets and a new journal and pen set for writing in. Jemma accepted all of her presents with grace and joy, especially the journal, saying she was almost out of room in her current book and was glad for a new one.

However, he could tell that she was still a little tense as they set out from the house to walk to the pub for lunch. Her hands were curled tight around the handlebar of Ellie’s pram, her knuckles nearly white even as she chatted with her parents as they walked down the street in the cool September air. Fitz knew she must still be smarting a bit from her mum’s appraisal of her ability to care for Ellie, so he hoped that a trip out and about would let Jemma show off her excellent mothering skills a bit, and possibly put her mum’s doubts to bed for good.

It was a short walk from their house to the high street, and from there only a block over to the cozy pub and dining room tucked right next to the grocer where Jemma did most of her shopping. They’d gone there once as a family for Sunday roast and had enjoyed it immensely--it wasn’t overly crowded or loud, which was good for Fitz’s nerves--so thought it would be a nice place to take Jemma’s parents.

“It’s quaint,” Mrs. Simmons said as they walked inside, her eyes roving over the dark wood-paneled walls contrasted with green paint. Fitz glanced at her, unsure if that was a compliment or not, but her expression was open so he decided to let it lie and stepped forward to greet the host.

They selected a table by a window that overlooked the pub’s back garden, and Fitz watched as Ellie’s attention was caught by the greenery covering the brick walls outside. He made sure she was settled in Jemma’s lap before taking his own seat, then gave the host his attention as he let them know what the pub had on offer to eat that day.

Lunch ended up being more pleasant than he could have anticipated. He didn’t know if it was because they were in public or if she truly had no further criticisms to offer up, but Mrs. Simmons didn’t make any more comments about Jemma’s parenting abilities (or his, for that matter). Instead, she ate her roast duck and kept up a running commentary of everything Jemma was missing out on in the central London social scene. Jemma listened and answered politely, occasionally bouncing Ellie in her lap and feeding her small spoonfuls of the mushy peas on her plate, but she didn’t seem particularly invested. It made Fitz wonder a little: had Jemma ever been a true society girl, or had she merely tolerated the frippery for her mum’s sake? In a way, seeing and knowing that she didn’t care much for it came as a relief. He knew that she was living more frugally with him than she was accustomed to, and if things like that had mattered to her, he didn’t know how he would have dealt with it.

Dr. Simmons surprised him by drawing him into a conversation about his work at the paper, wanting to know more about the details of what he did there and how he liked it. Fitz was glad to talk about it; it was a welcome change from being asked about the war, like his colleagues tended to do. He told him about the reporting he was sent out to do on city life, and how he was slowly being transitioned over to doing book reviews almost exclusively, which he felt would make a good use of his studies at St. Andrews. 

To his credit, Dr. Simmons listened attentively even though writing was so distant from his own profession, and even asked intelligent questions as if he was actually interested in what his new son-in-law did for a living. It left Fitz feeling pleased, like he’d managed to win over _one_ of Jemma’s parents, at least. Not that he thought Mrs. Simmons actively disliked him--but still, there was the way she’d brought up that old friend of Jemma’s over dessert, and he rather felt that she wouldn’t have done that if she fully approved of him. But he had her father’s support in the meantime, and when he glanced over, he saw that Jemma was smiling at the two of them, looking just as happy for him as he felt.

When the afternoon began to wane and Ellie grew tired and started to fuss a little, the Simmonses declared that it was time for them to get back home. Kisses on the cheek were exchanged, Fitz shook Dr. Simmons’ hand, and Mrs. Simmons cooed over Ellie in her pram.

“You must come up for a day during the week soon,” she said, looking at Jemma. “Mrs. Wilson can watch Eleanor, and we can spend the day together at the shops and go for tea.”

“We’ll see, Mum,” Jemma said lightly, adjusting Ellie’s blanket. “If I can find some time away from the house.”

Fitz knew hedging when he saw it, and ducked his head to hide a smile. Then Dr. Simmons turned to him with the air of someone who had a business proposition, and he straightened back up.

“I’ve got membership to a club that I visit with the other men in the neighborhood on the weekends, when I have time,” Mr. Simmons said. “You’d be more than welcome to come with me the next time I go, if you’d care to join me.”

“Oh.” Fitz was surprised by the invitation, and at a bit of loss for how to respond. Growing up poor and being on bursary at university, he’d never had access to private clubs before and didn’t know what to expect from one. All he knew was what he’d read in books: depictions of well-dressed men sitting around in deep leather armchairs, smoking cigars and drinking expensive brandy while they discussed money and politics. He didn’t think he could contribute anything at all to that sort of scene, but for Jemma’s sake, he could try.

“That’s very kind of you to offer, thank you, sir,” he said sincerely. “I’d be happy to go with you sometime.”

Jemma shot him a bemused look, but an irritated cry from Ellie redirected her attention before she could say anything about his acceptance. “We should be getting this one home,” she said, indicating the pram. “Mum, Dad, thank you so much again for coming to see us.”

There was another round of farewells, and then the Simmonses headed away down the street in the direction of the Underground station. Jemma gave him a small smile before they too set off for home.

Fitz snuck glances at her as they walked, taking in the way she carried herself, the grip of her hands on the handlebar of the pram. She was still a little stiff, and he wanted to ease some of the strain he knew she must be feeling. Not for the first time, he wished they had the sort of relationship where he could place a hand at her back or offer some other form of physical comfort--the way any other husband could. He knew it was mildly ridiculous that he was a married man who’d yet to be intimate with his wife, but she hadn’t given him any indication that she wanted that sort of attention from him. It was doubly ridiculous when he considered that being physical with her was how he’d ended up married in the first place, but still--if she no longer wanted that, he would respect it.

Even though he loved her and longed for her with all his heart.

Maybe she would come to love him in time. People had married under worse circumstances than they had and fallen in love; there was still hope. She was fond of him, that much was clear, and he was so grateful for it, but sometimes his heart couldn’t be content. Jemma would say something clever, or smile at him, or do something sweet with Ellie, and he would just--want to reach out and touch her cheek, or take her hand, or even lean in to kiss her. It never felt right, though, so he never did.

He could teach himself to be content, however. He would bask in the care she did feel for him like it was sunshine, soaking up its warmth and letting it sustain him. He would find new ways to love her every day, and if he ever faltered, he would remind himself that he had a job, a home, a wife who cared for him, and a beautiful baby daughter. He had everything he needed to be happy.

Seeing the way Jemma breathed a sigh of relief once they were home with the front door shut behind them, Fitz frowned. He hated seeing her so stressed on her birthday and wanted to do something to bring her some peace and relaxation, and therefore a little bit of happiness for herself. Pausing in the front hall, he rested a hand on the pram.

“Hey,” he said gently, catching Jemma’s eyes. “If you can handle the pram, I’ll take Ellie and run her bath and get her settled. Alright?”

Jemma’s eyes widened slightly, and she inhaled before shaking her head. “Oh, Fitz, I can handle it. Don’t worry.”

She started to push the pram past him, but he held up a hand to stop her. “I insist,” he said firmly. “It’s your birthday, you shouldn’t be running yourself ragged.” When she merely blinked at him, Fitz grinned winsomely at her. “Don’t you trust me to give our daughter a bath?”

It was actually a fair question, because he had never done anything of the sort before. Judging by the way Jemma raised a single eyebrow at him, she was genuinely considering the pros and cons. Finally, evidently deciding that he was competent enough--or just seeing that he was teasing her--she smiled and nodded.

“Alright,” she said, stepping aside so Fitz could come around the front of the pram. “But call me if you need any help.”

“We’ll be fine,” Fitz asserted, grunting slightly as he picked Ellie up. The walk home had lulled her to sleep and hence she was dead weight, but the act of being picked up had jostled her awake. She made a soft noise and rubbed her fists over her droopy eyes before curling up against Fitz’s shoulder. He gave Jemma a confident smile before turning to take Ellie into the kitchen.

Inside, he held his daughter close while he made sure the sink was clean before putting in the stopper and running a little bit of warm water like he had seen Jemma do, testing the temperature with his hand to make sure it wasn’t too hot. Then he sat Ellie down on the little table next to the sink--she was a little more awake now--and carefully undressed her before setting her down in the sink.

She immediately started slapping her hands at the water, sending up small splashes and looking pleased with herself. Smiling at her, Fitz reached for a clean dishrag and the box of soap flakes sitting on the windowsill to wet them down and work up a lather.

“It’s up to me now to get you sorted,” he told her quietly as he took one of her chubby arms and ran the soapy dishrag over it. “Because Mummy needs a break. So make it easy on me, yeah?”

Ellie simply pulled her arm away from him to pat at the water more, shaking her head when she accidentally splashed herself in the eyes, scrunching up her face in an expression that was very reminiscent of Jemma. Fitz laughed and reached for her other arm to keep washing her. He moved on to her back and chest and was just aiming to try for a leg without unseating her when he noticed Jemma leaning against the doorframe, watching them with a small smile on her face.

“Hey,” Fitz said with just a hint of reproach. “You’re supposed to be relaxing.”

Jemma’s smile widened and she shook her head. “I _am_ relaxing.”

He let go of Ellie for a second to wave a soapy hand at her. “I can handle this, don’t worry. Please, just go sit down.”

Shaking her head again, Jemma’s expression turned soft and fond. “I’m fine, I promise. I like watching you.”

Fitz squinted at her, then turned back to Ellie, picking up the dishrag again. “I knew Mummy didn’t trust me to give you a proper bath,” he said, _sotto voce_. From the doorway, Jemma laughed, and just hearing that put a smile on his face.

He tried not to be self-conscious as he finished giving Ellie her bath, knowing Jemma was watching them. He took care not to get soapy water in his daughter’s eyes as he carefully rubbed the dishrag over the crown of her head, then dipped it back into the water before squeezing it out over her to wash the suds away. He found the process a bit soothing, actually, calming and methodical, though he knew a lot of that was due to Ellie being such an easygoing baby. 

When he was finally done, Fitz pulled the stopper from the sink drain and wrapped Ellie up in a towel he plucked from the drying rack. Jemma straightened up from her position leaning against the doorframe and looked like she wanted to reach out and take the baby from him.

“It’s alright, I’ve got her,” he said, adjusting his hold on Ellie and turning a bit so she could see her mother over his shoulder. “I can get her settled for the evening.”

“Are you sure?” Jemma asked, a faint crease between her eyebrows. “I don’t mind taking her upstairs.”

Fitz nodded. “I’m sure.” He felt an urge to lean down and brush a kiss against her forehead, just to erase the worry lines there, but he resisted. “I’ll be back down in a few minutes.”

Upstairs in the nursery, he got Ellie settled on the dresser to get a fresh nappy on her. It wasn’t difficult, but it still took him a couple of tries to pin it correctly. Though he knew he hadn’t done as good a job as Jemma, it was perfectly serviceable. Once he had a frock on her as well, he picked her up, kissed her head, and gently laid her down in her cot.

“Sleep well, Ellie girl,” he said quietly, watching her eyelids droop. A feeling struck him then: he would do anything to keep his daughter safe and loved. On the heels of that came a memory, one he thought he’d buried deep, of his father chastising his mum by saying that giving their son affection would make him spoiled and weak. Fitz shook his head to clear it. He might be weak, but it wasn’t because his mum had raised him with love. No, his father was wrong, he knew that; there was nothing shameful about showing his child that he loved her and would always be there for her. And unlike his father, he would give Ellie all the love and affection that she deserved.

He watched her for a few more minutes, unable to help marveling at the tiny wonder she was and that he’d had a hand in creating her, until he was certain she would fall asleep. Then he switched off the lamp and went across the landing to the bedroom he shared with Jemma. 

It only took him a second to find the small package he’d hidden in the wardrobe; then he went downstairs to rejoin Jemma in the sitting room. She was sitting in her chair by the fireplace, the wireless softly playing while she fumbled with the needles and yarn in her lap. She’d been trying to teach herself to knit, wanting to make winter clothes for Ellie, but she hadn’t had much success so far. Her face was set in concentration, but at the sound of his approaching footsteps she looked up.

“Is she down for her nap?” she asked.

Fitz nodded. “Or close to it,” he replied, then stepped forward and held out the package he retrieved. “Here, this is for you.”

Jemma’s eyebrows went up. “For me?” she said, surprised, and carefully set her knitting aside to stand up. “Fitz, that’s so sweet of you. You shouldn’t have.”

He shrugged lightly, trying to play it off and disguise his nerves over giving her a gift. “Of course I should, it’s your birthday.” He gestured for her to take it. “Go on, then.”

Giving him a small smile, Jemma took the package and tore away its brown paper wrapping. He watched with a fair bit of anxiety as she did; he didn’t think much of his own birthday, of course, but he knew they mattered to her so he’d wanted to do something for her to mark the occasion, to show he cared. He just hoped he’d chosen wisely.

When Jemma uncovered the book hidden inside the wrapping, her eyes widened as she sucked in a small gasp. “Fitz!” she cried softly, setting the paper down on the side table and turning the book over in her hands. “Where did you find this?”

Fitz smiled, trying not to look too pleased and relieved that she seemed to like her gift. “I found a foreign language bookshop in Soho and went over during lunch one day,” he explained. “I thought I could find something you might like there. I needed help from the owner to navigate the French section, but, ah… I don’t know if you like medieval history, but he reassured me that anyone fluent in French would enjoy the book. ”

Jemma’s mouth curved into a small smile, running her hand over the front cover of the book before looking up at him. “I love it,” she said earnestly. “Thank you. And…” She looked down briefly, swallowing. “Thank you for taking such good care of Ellie, and--for being so supportive of me in front of my mum. Even if you didn’t mean all of it.”

Fitz blinked at her. “Of course I meant it,” he said earnestly. The way she looked so uncertain drove him to be a little more honest and open than he might ordinarily have been. “I think you’re a wonderful wife and mother. Your mum’s too hard on you. But don’t worry, you won’t be getting any complaints from me.”

Even if his reassurance had come out a little awkward, it was worth it just for the way Jemma’s face brightened and her shoulders relaxed. “Thank you, again,” she said, smiling once more. “I don’t know what I would do without you.” Then she stepped forward and went up on her toes to press a brief, sweet kiss to his cheek. 

His breath caught, but she was already turning to go back to her seat. It was probably for the best, because he could feel his cheeks blazing and he needed a second to recover from being flustered. It was an unexpected show of affection from her and it tugged at his heart, giving him a burst of hope--that maybe one day he really could have everything he wanted, and wouldn’t have to pine for her in silence.


	11. Chapter 11

Jemma was still smarting a little over her mother’s critique of her housewife skills a few days after her birthday when she received a couple of exciting items in the post. She’d heard a knock on the door just before the regular post slipped through the mail slot in the front door, meaning there was something too large to fit through the slot left outside. She went to the door, stopping to pick up the post on the floor first, and opened it to find a small package wrapped in brown paper and twine leaning against the doorframe.

Waving to the postman, who was heading off down the street, Jemma picked it up and retreated back inside to look everything over. There was an envelope from California, which she knew was a letter from Bobbi--a spark of excitement lit inside her heart, she was so eager to hear from her friend. But the package was curious. It was addressed to Fitz and postmarked from Chicago, and the paper crinkled and had some give to it. She hummed thoughtfully. Maybe it was from one of his friends in the army. She could ask him about it when he got home later in the afternoon. Taking them into the sitting room, she set the package on the mantel before taking a seat in her armchair and smiling at Ellie, who was playing on the rug with some of her toys.

“I’ve got a letter from your Aunt Bobbi,” she told her, carefully tearing the envelope open. “Well, I suppose she’s like your aunt. Neither your father nor I have any brothers or sisters, so she’s the closest thing you have to an aunt. And she loves you just as much as we do. Let’s see what she has to say, shall we?”

Ellie replied by smacking two of her blocks together, which Jemma took as agreeable a response as any she would get. Still smiling, she pulled the letter from the envelope and unfolded it to read. 

_September 7th, 1945_   
_Dear Jemma,_   
_I was so happy to get your letter, and even happier for the photo included. Ellie has grown so much since I last saw her! She’ll be walking and talking before you know it. Tell Fitz that he is a very good photographer. You look so happy with Ellie in the photo. He caught a beautiful moment._   
_Lance doesn’t share my feelings on that, or at least he’s pretending not to. He avoids all talk of children and didn’t want to see the photo, even when I told him it was very sweet. He’s afraid I’m going to catch ‘baby fever’, as he calls it. I told him we don’t have time for children, not yet, not with the work we’re doing, but he wasn’t very reassured. That’s very like him, though, but it doesn’t bother me. He can be a grouch if he wants and I can put your photo somewhere in the house where I can always see it._   
_I know this letter will reach you sometime around your birthday, so I’m sending along our best wishes and hopes for a happy day. I hope you get a bit of time for yourself and that Fitz treats you well. I’m sure he will. From everything you’ve told me, he sounds like a good man. I hope you’re both happy in your new house and that all of your neighbors are nice. Knowing you Brits, I’m sure they all are._   
_I really am glad for you. I know I’ve said it already but I’m so glad you found Fitz again and that you have a life together now. I remember how heartbroken you were when you were pregnant, so reading your letters now full of hope brings me so much joy. Let yourself be happy. You’ve earned it._   
_Love,_   
_Bobbi_

Jemma smiled softly as she reread the letter, taking in Bobbi’s clear fond exasperation at her husband and the happiness she exuded for Jemma’s new lot in life. It was good to know that someone at least approved of the path her life had taken. The few people from Bletchley that she’d kept up with, like Bobbi and Alice and Hannah, had all been thrilled and supportive when she’d written to them to say that Fitz was alive. Even her father seemed to be taking a shine to him. It felt like her mother alone was the one person who still had some reservations about him and her ability to be a good housewife. Jemma just hoped that with time, they could win her over.

With all the rest of the things that needed doing around the house, she forgot about the package until after dinner, when she and Fitz were both settled back in the sitting room with Ellie curled up in Fitz’s lap. “Oh!” she cried, putting her knitting needles back down from where she’d just picked them up. “You got something in the post today.”

Fitz looked up from where he was tickling Ellie’s feet. “Really?” he asked. “Not sure I was expecting anything soon.”

“Here.” Jemma had fetched the package from where she’d left it on the mantel, and held it out to him. “It came from Chicago. Do you know anyone there?”

His face immediately lit up as he took the package from her. “Ah, yes! This is from Jacob. Rosenfeld, one of my friends from the army,” he added, glancing up at her. “I wrote to him when we moved in to let him know of my change of address and that you and I were married, but I can’t imagine what it is that he’s sent back.” He turned the package over in his hands, then looked at Ellie. “Should we open it up and see what it is?” Ellie reached out to try and pull the package away from her father, and he laughed. “Alright, I see, you’re impatient. Let’s have a look.”

He undid the twine tied around the package, then tore into the thick brown paper and pulled out… a monkey.

It was quite different from the plush monkey he had brought Ellie when they’d first reunited. This one was soft too, but the body and limbs were all thin and gangly, made from a marled brown and cream knit. The mouth was a bright cheerful red, and the eyes were made from black buttons sewn on.

“Oh, look at it, it’s darling,” Jemma said, watching as Ellie grabbed onto one of the legs. “Is it made out of… socks?”

“Looks like,” Fitz murmured, still looking the monkey over. Then a slip of folded paper fell out of the brown wrapping and into his lap, and he blinked at it. “Oh, he sent a note, too. Let’s see what he has to say.” He set the wrapping paper aside on the side table and let Ellie take full hold of the monkey. “Here, Ellie girl, I think this is for you.”

Jemma sat back down in her armchair as Fitz unfolded the letter to read it, and watched as a smile spread over his face. Then he laughed.

“What’s it say?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

Fitz shook his head, still smiling. “Just that out of all of us in the squad, he wouldn’t have figured me to be the first one to get married--much less have a child.” He looked over to turn his smile on her. “But he sends his best wishes and says he’s sure you’re a lovely woman.”

That brought a smile to Jemma’s face. “That’s very kind of him.”

“He’s a good man,” Fitz said, looking back down at the letter. “You’d like him. I’m sure he’d like you too, if you met.” He read more for a moment in silence before his smile widened. “Oh, it looks like he’ll be joining our ranks soon. He says he’s getting married himself in a few weeks. A girl named Ruth, says he’s known her since they were in school.” He laughed. “But he’s not planning on becoming a father just yet, he’s leaving that to me.” He set the letter down on the side table and turned his attention to Ellie, who had stuffed one of the monkey’s hands in her mouth and was drooling all over it. “The monkey was Ruth’s idea, apparently. Jacob said they make them in a factory just outside of Chicago, where they live. He told her how much I like monkeys and they thought it would be a good gift for our little monkey.” He stroked a hand over Ellie’s head. “She seems to like it enough.”

Jemma laughed lightly. “I think it will make a good companion to her other monkey. Maybe we can start a whole shelf for her. It can be a theme.”

Fitz nodded, his expression fond as he looked at his daughter. “I think that sounds like a great idea.”

-:-

That night, Fitz had a nightmare.

He’d always been a restless sleeper--or at least he had been so far in the short time Jemma had been sharing a bed with him--but she’d just chalked it up to how he was. He tossed and turned a lot, something that sometimes kept her from resting but which she most often noticed when she woke up in the wee hours of the morning for Ellie’s nighttime meal. He also mumbled frequently, words she could never quite make out, and it made her wonder what he was dreaming about. She figured he must have a very busy imagination to make him so active in his sleep.

But tonight was different. She was abruptly woken up by a sharp foot to the shin, and when her eyes flew open on a gasp she found Fitz thrashing in his sleep. He was lying on his back but his limbs were jerking erratically, twisting the blankets around them, and in the dim moonlight coming through the curtains she could just make out that his face was screwed up in what looked like fright. And she could understand what he was saying.

“Don’t, don’t,” he was muttering, and one of his hands flew out to smack her in the chest. Jemma sucked in a breath and tried to catch it between her own, still caught in that liminal space between sleep and wakefulness, but Fitz pulled away before she could. “Stop, don’t, _don’t_ ,” he repeated, more urgently, and she could hear fear thick in his voice. He was having a bad dream, she realized, and blinked her eyes open wider. But before she could reach over to carefully shake him awake, Fitz suddenly let out a terrified scream and bolted upright in bed, one of his hands held out in front of him as though to ward something off.

Scared witless by his shriek, Jemma was up and by his side in an instant, reaching out to curl her fingers over his outstretched hand. “Fitz--”

He flinched hard at her touch and twisted away, gasping for breath and shaking badly. He seemed disoriented, like he didn’t quite know where he was. Desperate to comfort him, she tried again. “Fitz,” she said, quieter, “it’s alright. It was just a bad dream.” She placed a light hand on his knee above the blankets; she could feel him shivering even through the duvet. “You’re safe.”

But Fitz just shook his head, ducking so she couldn’t see his face. “No,” he mumbled brokenly. “No.”

Jemma frowned. What could have scared him so badly? Was it a nightmare, or a memory? “No?” she asked gently. “You’re here with me in our house, in Chiswick. Nothing can hurt you here.”

Fitz took in a deep, shuddering breath, but didn’t reply. He just kept his eyes trained on his lap. Her concern growing, Jemma was about to ask him if he needed anything when a thin, muffled wail cut through the air. Ellie had woken up.

That made Fitz lift his head, and he looked stricken. “Oh no,” he said, full of remorse. “I didn’t mean to--”

Jemma patted his knee. “It’s alright.” She turned to look at the small alarm clock sitting on her bedside table, squinting through the darkness to make out the position of the little hands on the clock face. “It’s almost time for me to get up and feed her, anyway. Here.” She picked up the clock to reset the alarm for later in the morning, and swung her legs over the side of the bed to get up. “I’ll be right back.”

She yawned as she went to Ellie’s room, finding her daughter sitting up in the middle of her cot with tears rolling down her cheeks. “Shh, I’m here,” she said as she picked her daughter up and settled her against her chest. “Let’s get you changed and find you something to eat.”

Jemma made short work of changing Ellie’s nappy, setting aside the soiled one in a hamper to wash later in the day, then took her daughter downstairs to the kitchen. There, she hummed quietly to her while she went about preparing a bottle mostly one-handed, something she’d become very adept at over the past several months. She warmed up the milk and syrup mixture she’d prepared earlier that day by letting it sit in a pan of heated water, then tested the temperature on the back of her hand to make sure it was good enough. When it was just right, she switched off the stove and the lights in the kitchen before taking Ellie back upstairs.

When she came back into the bedroom she shared with Fitz, he was sitting up against the headboard in the semi-dark, looking completely drained and dispirited. “There he is,” she said softly, speaking to Ellie, and came to sit down next to him on the bed. She was hoping that maybe having his daughter near would calm him and lift his spirits a bit. She got Ellie settled in her lap more comfortably and let her latch onto the bottle, then smiled warmly at Fitz.

Fitz was already watching Ellie, and as she sucked away at her bottle, he reached out to run a light hand over the crown of her head. Jemma couldn’t be sure, but she thought the line of his shoulders relaxed just a little. “Are you feeling any better?” she asked quietly, careful not to disturb the peace that had settled over the room in the aftermath of his nightmare.

“A bit,” Fitz replied. 

She watched as he trailed his fingers over Ellie’s arm and down her leg, towards him to her foot. When he didn’t offer up any more details, she ventured, “Do you want to talk about it?”

There was a beat before he shook his head. “No, not really,” he said, so quiet she could barely hear him.

Definitely about the war, then, whatever it was he’d been dreaming about. Jemma had found that Fitz was willing to talk to her on just about anything, but the war was clearly still off-limits. She bit back a sigh. She didn’t know if it was a lack of trust or an unwillingness to share and relive those memories, or if he didn’t think she could handle what he’d been through--she would set him straight on that _very_ quickly--but he looked so dejected that she didn’t want to push it at the moment. That didn’t mean she wanted to completely leave him adrift, however. She wanted to cast him a line.

“I hope you know,” she said, treading very lightly, “that you can talk to me about anything.”

Fitz’s eyes darted up to hers and there was a quick flash of a pale, weak smile. “I know,” he replied hoarsely. “But I--I can’t talk about this.”

Jemma watched him for a moment, wishing she could understand what he was thinking and feeling, before nodding and looking back down at Ellie. They fell into silence then as they watched their daughter eat, Fitz still tracing his fingers lightly over her baby-soft skin. Jemma hoped it was bringing him some modicum of comfort, if nothing else was. If she couldn’t help him, maybe Ellie could. By the time she was done with her bottle, she was nearly half asleep again, and Jemma adjusted her carefully in her lap.

“I’ll just get her back to bed,” she said.

Before she could stand, Fitz surprised her by leaning forward to press a kiss to the top of Ellie’s head. Then he gave her another wan smile, and she took that as her cue to leave.

Jemma held Ellie against her shoulder as she walked slow laps around the nursery, gently patting her back in an effort to get her to settle down  Once she was certain she would sleep, she laid her daughter down in her cot and made sure she was settled before she switched off the lamp and took the used bottle downstairs to rinse out. She would give it a thorough cleaning later.

Smothering a yawn with one hand, Jemma slowly climbed the stairs in the dark, eager to get back to bed and catch a few more hours’ sleep, but only after she made sure that Fitz was alright. However, when she came back into their bedroom, she could see through the dark that he’d laid back down on his side facing the edge of the bed, and he didn’t look up at her entry.

She wasn’t sure if he’d fallen back asleep already or was only pretending, so she hovered by the door for a moment, uncertain what to do. When another minute passed and he still hadn’t moved, she sighed and crossed the room to the bed, crawling back in beneath the sheets behind him. Resting her head on her pillow, she frowned at Fitz’s back. She wished he would talk to her, but she couldn’t force him to. She hoped he wouldn’t have any more nightmares, either, but if he did, she would be right there to wake him from them. And if he still wouldn’t talk to her, well--she would just have to find a way to help him through them somehow.

-:-

Fitz was a little quiet and distant for a few days after his nightmare. Jemma let him have his space, not wanting to push into areas that might be too raw and fraught with upset for him. It gave her time to think, though, to try and sort through some of her muddled feelings. The way he’d reacted to his dream had left her at a loss, not knowing how to help him if he had another one--and she had a feeling that his first night terror would not be the last.

Noticing how drawn he was that next morning, Jemma thought back over his behavior since they’d been reunited. On the whole he’d been kind and bright and good-humored, just as she remembered him, but there were moments where he would grow quiet or broody or simply stare off into space. She’d chalked it up to his natural temperament, just another facet of the shyness that she found so charming in him. But now she was thinking of how he refused to talk about the war, how he’d clammed up when her father had asked him what he’d done there. And that--in conjunction with his unwillingness to talk about his nightmare--made her consider that perhaps his experiences had harmed him more than he was letting on.

But what could she do about it, if Fitz wouldn’t let her help?

Maybe, she thought, if they were a couple who had done things the right way around, who’d had a normal romance and gotten married knowing they both fully loved each other, he might be more willing to share his troubles with her.

It was a sobering question she was still running over in her mind when Harriet stopped by one afternoon to make her usual trade of eggs for apples. It would probably be one of the last of the season for Jemma; the apple tree in their back garden was almost picked bare. She invited her neighbor in and led her to the kitchen, where she already had apples in a bowl waiting for her. They exchanged pleasantries about the weather and the wares on offer at the shops as Jemma transferred the eggs to her icebox, and Harriet refilled her basket with apples.

On the way out, they stopped by the sitting room so Harriet could see Ellie. “Oh, she’s growing every day, still such a darling,” Harriet cooed, smiling as Jemma picked Ellie up to sit on her hip. “She looks just like you.”

Jemma looked down at her daughter and smiled too, brushing a finger through the curly wisps of hair at her crown. “I think she takes more after her father.”

Harriet’s expression turned apologetic. “How is he? I’m still sorry I haven’t had a chance to meet him properly. I’ve seen him a time or two in the afternoon when he’s coming in from work, but haven’t been able to say more than hello to him.”

“Oh, he’s fine,” Jemma replied, deliberately omitting her recent concerns. Harriet was a lovely woman and perfectly nice, but she didn’t know her well enough yet to start delving into deeply personal matters. “He’s settling in well here--we both are--and he’s enjoying his work. I think it’s been a good change of pace for him.”

Nodding, Harriet said, “What does he do again?”

Jemma realized that in all of their conversations so far, the topic of Fitz’s career had never come up. “He’s a writer,” she replied, adjusting Ellie on her hip. “For the _Telegraph_. He’s mostly doing book reviews now, but during the war he was a correspondent.”

Harriet’s eyebrows went up in understanding. “Oh, that’s right, you did tell me he’d gone away. So he works for the _Telegraph_ \--did he write the field stories column?” Jemma nodded. “James Smith?” When Jemma nodded again, Harriet’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “I thought you said your name was Fitz.”

“Oh, it is,” Jemma assured her. “But the paper has him write under a pseudonym because they feel that ‘Leopold’ sounds a touch too German.” She rolled her eyes to illustrate what she thought of that.

It made Harriet laugh. “I suppose that makes sense,” she said. “But oh, that’s splendid. His columns were so well done, I read every one of them. Peter made sure we kept our subscription up just so we could keep up with it. Has he told you any more stories about his time over there?”

Without meaning to, Jemma frowned. “No,” she said, and was distracted for a moment by Ellie tugging at the collar of her dress. Once she’d gently redirected her attention, she added, “Actually, he hasn’t spoken to me about it at all. Any of it.” Her frown deepened. “I think he just wants to keep it to himself.”

Harriet’s face softened. “You know, Peter served in the first War, as an infantryman,” she said. “He doesn’t like to talk about it much either, so I can only imagine the sorts of things he must have seen. It must be the same for your Fitz.” She smiled, a hint of sadness lingering around the edges. “He’s a true hero, though, doing what he did. He risked his life to let us know how the men on the front were holding up.”

Jemma smiled back, a touch awkwardly. “I know he is,” she said, and she meant it. “I’m very proud of him.”

She just wished she knew what exactly was troubling him so much, and how she could make it better. Or at the very least, help ease his burden somewhat. She knew they weren’t quite a conventional married couple in that there hadn’t been any declarations of love yet, but she felt safe in thinking that she and Fitz were good friends, or somewhere in the space between friends and more--and as such, she felt that as his friend, as his wife, she should help carry him through his troubles. Maybe he just wasn’t used to opening up, though. She couldn’t think of many men who were. Perhaps over time, as they grew to know each other even better, Fitz might come to feel like he could confide in her.

A few days later, Jemma was washing the dishes in the sink after dinner, and Fitz was helping her. He seemed a little more back to his usual self, chatting easily with her about the latest book he had to review as he dried off the plates she handed him before setting them in the dish rack. As he set the last dish down, he breathed in deeply, appearing to gather his thoughts, then said, “Can we talk?”

A faint nervous flutter blew through her stomach at his change of tone, but Jemma forced herself to keep a neutral face. “I thought we _were_ talking,” she teased, and it was worth it to see Fitz’s expression turn gently exasperated.

“No, I mean,” he tried again, “I wanted to ask you about something.”

Jemma dried her hands on a tea towel and handed it to him to drape over the drying rack. “Alright. Go on.”

Fitz took a moment to carefully arrange the towel on the drying rack, making sure it was straight and hung evenly. Then he looked back up at her. “What did you want to do with your life, before the war?” he asked.

Jemma blinked. That wasn’t the sort of question she had expected at all; she’d hoped, maybe, that he was at last wanting to open up about his war experiences. Asking after _her_ hadn’t even crossed her mind. As a result, it took her a moment to consider his question seriously, casting her mind back to the bright young girl she’d been when she’d entered Cambridge at eighteen.

“I know you did classified work for the government that you can’t tell me about,” Fitz added, watching her. “But before that, when you went to university to study languages, what did you want to do?”

Still thinking on how best to answer his question, Jemma turned to head for the sitting room, gesturing for Fitz to follow her. There, they found that Ellie was half-asleep in her playpen, drowsy on a full stomach and curled up on a blanket with both of her stuffed monkeys. Jemma smiled down at her before taking a seat in her armchair with a sigh.

“I was never really sure,” she said as Fitz sat down opposite her in his own chair. “I knew I wanted what I learned to be practical. So I considered diplomacy, as it makes a heavy use of the French language, and my father knows a few diplomats through his social circle. It seemed like the best route to go; I could use those connections to help secure myself a good job. But then the war happened, and I was recruited straight from university for my skill in German… and you know the rest.” She smiled wryly at him. “I don’t know what I would have done, honestly. I never had the chance to find out.”

That seemed to distress Fitz; his face crumpled slightly as an expression of  remorse came over it. “If you’d had the chance, though,” he asked, “what would you like to do?”

Jemma shrugged lightly. “Diplomacy still, maybe,” she replied. “There’s a need for it right now--they’re organizing that United Nations, you know, and they’ll need diplomats and translators for that.” She sighed again. “But it would take us far away from here... so perhaps I would just teach.” Then she shook her head. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? I’ve got Ellie to mind now, and our house to keep.”

Fitz’s frown only deepened, and he twisted his thumb into his palm where his hands rested in his lap. “But if you could,” he pressed, “would you?” When Jemma just stared at him, unsure what to make of his line of questioning, he swallowed and looked down at his hands. “I… I could do most of my work from home,” he said. “I’m mostly on book reviews now, you know, and they only have me go out to investigate for a column every so often. It doesn’t require me to be at the office that much. If I asked, I could probably come to an arrangement with my editor, and, ah… if you wanted to find a job, I could stay here with Ellie.”

Jemma continued to stare at him, completely speechless. Did he fully understand what he was suggesting? Had he completely thought it through? He certainly _looked_ serious.

Apparently taking her silence for what it was--shock--Fitz gave her a self-deprecating smile and looked back down. “It’s just--I know I’ve sort of derailed your life,” he explained quietly. “I want to give you the chance to gain some of it back.”

Something like dismay mixed with horror struck her in the gut; she was aghast that he would think such a thing. “Fitz-- _no_ ,” she choked, her heart constricting painfully both at the implication that he felt he’d done her wrong, and at the reference to the night Ellie had been conceived. “We--we _both_ made decisions that night. Together.”

Fitz’s smile twisted, wry and sad. “Yeah, but you’re the only one who’s had to pay for them, aren’t you?”

Jemma swallowed against the lump in her throat as she sat back in her chair. She thought she could see things the way he was probably viewing them: he had gone to war, but he was already headed there when they’d met. But she’d faced judgment and gossip during her pregnancy due to his absence, and had given birth alone without hardly any support. She’d been forced to move back in with her parents. Any plans she might have had for her future had to be put on hold the moment she discovered she was expecting.

She understood what Fitz was thinking, but she didn’t agree with it. That wasn’t how she saw things at all. Ellie had been unexpected, but she didn’t regret the direction her life had taken one bit. She was trying to decide how best to convince him of that when he straightened in his seat a bit.

“There’s something else I haven’t told you,” he said with a touch of hesitation, and Jemma looked at him with faint apprehension. “I’ve, um… I was approached by a publisher, shortly after I arrived back home. They offered me a fairly hefty advance to write a book detailing my experiences as a war correspondent, based off the popularity of my column in the paper.” He bowed his head. “I’ve been hesitant to reply because I don’t know what to do about it, honestly. It--it doesn’t feel right to capitalize on the deaths of so many good men, but at the same time… I feel like they deserve to be known. They were important, and brave, and people should know what they sacrificed.” He took in a deep breath and looked back up at her, his eyes solemn. “If I accept the deal, it will… we’ll be set financially, for awhile. I really could stay here with Ellie, while I write. And you could go look for a job, if you wanted.” He shrugged, a little lamely. “It’s just something for you to think about.”

It was a lot for her to think about, actually. There were so many things Jemma wanted to ask him, mostly about the book deal--how much had he been offered? Why hadn’t he told her sooner? How did he truly feel about the prospect of having to write about something that obviously caused him suffering?--but those would be questions for later. Now, she needed to focus on the immediate one at hand: did she want Fitz to stay at home so she could go seek employment?

Again, she wondered if Fitz truly understood what he was asking. It was unheard of for a man to stay home with the children and mind the house, and she found it amazing that he was even willing to offer. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t tempted, but her greater concern was what the neighbors would say when word got around. If Fitz had been concerned about potential gossip if the truth about their marriage was revealed, it would be nothing compared to if he stayed home and Jemma got a job.

That was what decided her, in the end--what would be best overall for their family. Things were good as they were, and she saw no reason to upset that. Angling herself a little more toward him in her seat, Jemma said, “About the book offer… I want you to do what feels right to you. I won’t put any pressure on you one way or the other, but I’ll support whatever decision you come to.” Seeing the way Fitz’s shoulders relaxed a little, she smiled and continued on. “As for _your_ offer… it’s very sweet and selfless of you and it means more to me than I know how to express, but I’m actually very happy where I am.” When she saw him open his mouth to protest, she raised a hand to stop him. “Really, Fitz, I am. Maybe in a few years, when Ellie is older and off to school, I can look into teaching a few days a week. But for now, I’m where I’m meant to be.”

Fitz looked like he wasn’t quite convinced. “You’re sure?” he asked, faint worry creasing his forehead. “I just want you to be happy.”

His concern made Jemma’s heart melt. Once again, he was proving how good and kind he was, and she couldn’t help but adore him for it. “I’m sure,” she said, smiling again. “This may not be the life I had originally imagined for myself, but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad one. Far from it.”

The worry on Fitz’s face disappeared, replaced by a slow, hesitant smile that bloomed with hope, lighting up his features. “Yeah?”

Jemma nodded, and in that moment the urge to get up and go to him, to kneel at his feet and take his hand and reassure him that she was very happy with him, was strong. But she didn’t, because it felt too close to admitting something she wasn’t quite ready to yet. Instead, her smile softened as she looked at him. “Yeah,” she said back. “I’m happy where I am.”  
  
Fitz’s smile widened, and he ducked his head with a touch of shyness as he picked his book up from the side table. “That’s good to know,” he replied, and his smile lingered at the corners of his mouth long after he’d settled in to read.

-:-

The following weekend, Fitz was still wrestling with the question of what to do with the book deal he’d been offered. Some days, he felt like he was close to accepting it, but then he’d think of his memories of the war and all that came with it and he would freeze up on the inside, overwhelmed with dread and rejecting any further contemplation of the idea. It was frustrating; the publisher who had approached him was giving him all the time he needed to consider the offer, but Fitz felt like the longer he waited, the more the opportunity slipped from his fingers. He kept reminding himself there were definite advantages to penning the book--it would earn him a good bit of money up front, like he’d told Jemma, and it could possibly pave the way for the writing career he’d always dreamed of. But it would also lay him bare to the world, depending on how candid he chose to be, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for that. He wasn’t sure if he would ever be ready.

It was a conundrum that was chasing itself in circles around his head, distracting him from his reading of the latest Albert Campion mystery, which he was supposed to review for work. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t focus on the words on the page in front of him. His brain kept snapping back to the problem of whether or not he should relive his experiences in the war for the sake of writing a book.

Finally, Fitz heaved a sigh. He wasn’t going to get anything done at the moment, so he might as well take a break. The clock on the mantel told him it was nearing lunchtime; maybe he could go beg a sandwich and a fresh cup of tea from Jemma if she wasn’t too busy. Goal in mind, he set his book aside and picked up his nearly-empty teacup before standing to walk for the door.

He hadn’t taken more than two steps when a loud, sharp _bang_ sounded from outside the house, coming from the direction of the street. A shock of terror went through him and he froze in place, gasping as he dropped his teacup, but he didn’t hear it hit the hardwood floor and shatter. He couldn’t see the painted walls in front of him or the door leading into the hallway.

Instead he was back in the Ardennes forest, just outside of Bastogne on a bitterly cold, snowy day. He was crouched down inside a foxhole with another man, both of them ducking against a shower of flying dirt. Then he was peeking over the lip of the hole, staring in horror at the smoking crater where there had just been another foxhole containing two of his friends. They were gone.

He knew it wasn’t real. He knew it was just a memory. But he could feel the biting cold of that day and smell the dirt and the gunpowder scent of the shell, could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins as if it were happening all over again. A dim, faraway part of him registered Jemma coming into the room, then rushing to him and gripping his arms, but he couldn’t move or speak. He was trapped inside his mind, his ears filled with the sound of his sergeant screaming, telling him and the soldier with him to move. They’d wanted to obey the order, but they were terrified that if they left the foxhole, the Germans would shoot them on sight. That fear, however, was at odds with the knowledge that if they stayed where they were, something far worse would happen.

Jemma was speaking to him, one of her hands palming his cheek, but he couldn’t hear her. Then she let go of him to walk to the window, pushing the curtains aside to look out. Fitz knew he was shaking, but he couldn’t pull himself back to rights. All he could feel was the abject fear of that day and the certainty that he was going to die. They’d eventually left the foxhole, sprinting for the cover of the building where their sergeant was, some distance away. They’d been shot at, just as he’d feared, and it had been a near thing--the blast had knocked them to the ground, cracking the case of his camera in the process. They’d barely made it to the safety of the building, out of range of the Germans’ guns. 

A gentle touch drew his attention. Jemma was back in front of him, both of her hands on his face now, and she looked frightened. He had the absurd thought that she shouldn’t be in the forest, that it wasn’t safe for her there, and he wanted to pull her away. Suddenly the room around him came back into focus, and he could hear her voice.

“Fitz, Fitz,” she was repeating as she stroked her thumbs over his cheeks, sounding deeply worried and close to tears. “Fitz, can you hear me?”

He blinked a few times as he looked at her, as if coming out of a dream; then he sucked in a breath and took a step back from her, his body shaking for an entirely new reason. He couldn’t believe he’d let himself slip so badly in front of her.

Jemma reached out toward him again, her face still filled with concern. “Fitz?” she asked. “What happened?”

Trying to calm the thundering of his heart, Fitz swallowed several times and looked around in an effort to regain his bearings and ground himself back in reality. “What was that noise?” he managed, his voice trembling just as badly as the rest of him.

Jemma frowned before looking over his shoulder to the window, then back at him. “I checked outside and the Joneses have their new car out on the street, I think it backfired,” she said. Then she took a step toward him. “But are you alright?”  
  
He took in a deep breath and blinked again, but in the second that his eyes were shut, he felt the terror in his veins as he’d ran, the heavy footfalls of his boots crunching fast in the snow, his ragged breathing loud in his ears. He shook his head to clear it and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m fine,” he replied shortly. “Fine. Just had a, ah, just had a bit of a shock.”

Biting her lip, Jemma twisted her hands together at her waist. “You scared me,” she said quietly. “It was like you couldn’t hear me… like you were somewhere else.”

If only she knew how right she was. But that only sent shame and guilt flooding thick through him, leaving him disgusted at his own weakness, and it made his stomach churn. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, and started edging toward the door. He needed some space, some room to breathe. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, watching him. Though he could appreciate what she was trying to do, and generally her care and concern meant the world to him, in the moment it just felt like he was being smothered. He needed to get away from her and everything else before he truly broke down or became irritable or tetchy and snapped and said something he didn’t mean. Shaking his head, he stepped around her.

“No,” he said. “I just--I need some air for a moment, that’s all.”

Turning to follow him, Jemma reached out for his arm. “Fitz, please--”

“ _No_ ,” he repeated sharply, and immediately hated himself for the way she jerked her hand back, like he’d burned her. But his guilt and self-loathing and the lingering fear from his flashback was overwhelming him, and he needed to escape. Without looking back, he turned and fled, going through the kitchen and out the door into the back garden, his feet carrying him automatically to the Anderson shelter. There, it would be quiet and dark. He would be safe. He could count numbers and do mental sums until it no longer felt like a vise was constricting his chest and he could breathe again, and he no longer heard the dying screams of his fallen friends in his head.

-:-  

It took Jemma a moment to collect herself after Fitz walked out. She was hurt, but a tiny part of her whispered that maybe it was her just desserts for being so cross with him on the day she’d moved in. Logically she knew that wasn’t true, though, and that even if she couldn’t parse Fitz’s behavior, she didn’t have time to wallow in her feelings. She still had chores to do, and Ellie needed her lunch.

So she carefully cleaned up the tea that had been spilled on the floor and swept up the broken shards of the cup into the dustbin. Then she went back to the kitchen to finish washing the dishes. She couldn’t see Fitz in the garden through the window in the back door and figured he must have gone into the Anderson shelter. He’d converted it into a little darkroom for developing the photographs he took; maybe he found it to be a peaceful and soothing environment. She wanted to go out and check on him because she was very worried, but he’d made it very clear that he didn’t want her near him. She hated it, but she would just have to accept that until he came back inside.

That didn’t, however, stop her from repeatedly looking out the glass-paned doors in the dining room as she fed Ellie lunch, hoping to see Fitz emerge. But he never did. Her concern and worry for him only grew, past cleaning Ellie’s dishes and picking through her own lunch, until she had Ellie settled on a blanket in the sitting room and was in her chair staring listlessly at a book on linguistics. That was when she heard the back door in the kitchen open and footsteps come in.

Her heart leaping into her throat, Jemma put her book down on the side table and jumped up to go into the hall. She met Fitz there just outside the door to the sitting room, and she was relieved to see that he looked much better. Tired, perhaps, but there was color back in his cheeks and he no longer looked like a stiff breeze would knock him over. She wasn’t sure what to say to him, though, how to ask if he was alright without being indelicate, or if she should ignore the whole thing entirely and move past it. It left her standing staring at him with her mouth awkwardly hanging open, frozen in indecision. Fortunately, Fitz took the initiative.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his face contrite, and reached out to wrap his hands gently around her shoulders. “I had a--a bad spell, but I’m feeling much better now. I’m sorry I scared you.”

Still deeply concerned for him, Jemma circled one of his wrists with her hand and frowned at him. “You’re sure you’re alright?” she asked, despite that question having not been received well earlier. She couldn’t help herself; she just wanted to take care of him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Fitz shook his head, and she thought she saw a hint of guilt in the twist of his mouth. “No,” he said. “I promise you, I’m fine now.”

A part of her wanted to fight him on it. She knew in her gut that he wasn’t fine, no matter what he said, and she only wanted to help him. She wanted to know what it was that was causing him so much stress and anguish. But he looked so exhausted that she didn’t have the heart to press the issue. Instead, she watched as Fitz’s eyes caught on Ellie crawling around on her blanket amongst her toys, and his expression brightened.

“There’s my girl,” he said, moving past Jemma to go into the sitting room. “Look at you. Did you enjoy your lunch?” He bent over to pick his daughter up, settling her on his hip and smiling at her. “I think you’ve grown since breakfast. I can tell.”

Jemma could see that his cheeriness was a little forced, but Ellie would never know the difference. She wasn’t going to call him out on it, either--the fact that he was willing to be happy for his daughter despite his own personal woes spoke volumes.

She just wished he trusted her enough to confide in her.

-:-

That evening, Jemma cooked one of Fitz’s favorite meals for dinner in the hopes of cheering him up a little more. She roasted a side of beef in a pan along with some vegetables, then made potato cakes and a sweet pudding. It seemed to work; he was delighted to sit down to eat and raved about the potato cakes in particular, saying they reminded him of the ones his mum made when he was a boy. It made Jemma feel nice, like she’d done something valuable for him. His good mood lasted well after they’d put Ellie to bed and retired to their chairs in the sitting room. They turned the wireless on low volume to listen to music, and Fitz told her his thoughts so far on _Pearls Before Swine_ (“engaging, if a little bit predictable”) while she wrestled with her knitting. By all appearances, he was back to rights, and while Jemma wasn’t fully convinced of it, she was glad to at least see him smiling.

But that night, after they went to bed, he had another violent nightmare. Jemma awoke to Fitz choking on a scream, his arms lashing out, and she immediately sat up to get ahold of him and try to calm him down.

“Shh, Fitz, shh, you’re safe,” she said soothingly, squeezing his arms. “It’s just me.”

Fitz froze, staring up at her with unfocused eyes; then he blinked and really _looked_ at her before his entire body went lax, and he shut his eyes with a soft groan.

“Bad dream?” Jemma asked unnecessarily, keeping her tone light and neutral. It was obvious he’d had another night terror just from the way his chest was heaving as he gulped in air and his arms trembled beneath her touch. But a part of her wanted to hear him say it, to admit that something was wrong.

Fitz nodded as he dragged his hands slowly down his face. “Yeah,” he said at length. Then he sighed. “Just a bad dream.”

“Can I help?” she asked again. “Do you need anything?”

He shook his head. “No, I just…” He sighed again and rolled away from her, onto his side facing the outside edge of the bed. “I just need to lie still for a moment.”

Jemma bit her lip as she stared at his back for a full minute, then laid down again, feeling defeated. She didn’t know why he was being so stubborn and refusing to talk to her. Were the things plaguing his dreams and his thoughts really so terrible? Did he think she was too weak to handle it?

( _No_ , she reminded herself. She knew Fitz respected and valued her. Whatever this was, it had nothing to do with her.)

She laid awake for a long while, turning the issue over in her head, but found no answers.

-:-

It became something of a routine.

Fitz began having nightmares almost every night. They were always bad enough that she woke up, but sometimes he didn’t; she would have to gently shake him awake, and then he would shout and yell in fright just as badly as he did when he woke on his own, and Jemma would feel terrible for scaring him. She did her best to comfort him and always asked if she could do something to help, but Fitz always refused. Most nights, he would roll over and lie still until he fell back into a fitful sleep. Sometimes he went to the kitchen for a drink of water, and once, after a particularly severe dream, he even went downstairs to read a book in the sitting room until he tired himself out again. 

Jemma could never rest while he was gone, lying on her back and staring up at the ceiling of their bedroom while her heart twisted with worry. Fitz always insisted that he was fine and would act like nothing had happened later in the morning, but she knew he was suffering. He was as attentive and kind to her and Ellie as ever, but dark circles were developing beneath his eyes and he looked tired all the time. She desperately wanted to help him, but what could she do if he was soldiering on as if everything was well? Would she have to wait until things became so dire that he broke down and had no excuse to deny her anymore? What would happen if she tried to force the issue?

In her despair, she wrote a letter to Bobbi asking for advice. Her husband had served in the SAS; perhaps he had experience in dealing with the regrets of war and could offer some insights into what Fitz was going through. For both Bobbi and Lance’s sake she hoped he couldn’t, as she wouldn’t wish her current anguish and Fitz’s nightmares on anyone, but she was in sore need of encouragement and a friendly voice, and willing to try anything.

Jemma finally cracked after a week of restless nights. Fitz had just relaxed after waking up from another terrible dream, and rather than let her fuss over him or get up for a drink of water, he simply rolled away from her onto his side without a word. Feeling hopeless and at her wit’s end, she crumbled.

“Fitz,” she said, her voice wobbly and thick with unshed tears, “please don’t turn away from me.” She felt him tense under where her outstretched fingers rested against his back, but she pushed on. “ _Please_ let me help. I don’t know what’s hurting you, but it’s breaking my heart to see you suffer like this. I would do anything to make it better.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was her hitching breaths as she tried her best not to cry openly. Then, slowly, Fitz rolled onto his back and turned his head to look at her, and she didn’t think she’d ever seen him look so uncomfortable or full of shame. “I--I’m sorry,” he mumbled, and he genuinely sounded it. “It… it was never my intention to hurt you, but I--”

“I’m your wife,” she cut in brokenly, and Fitz’s jaw snapped shut. It was a low blow, she knew, but she could intuit that he was about to deflect again and tell her she had nothing to worry about, that whatever was wrong, he could handle it on his own. He _couldn’t,_ and she wouldn’t let him try anymore. She laid a hand on his arm and gently squeezed it. “I’m your partner, your _friend_ \--at least, I hope. If you can’t rely on me when you’re not well, then who?”

Fitz’s throat visibly bobbed as he looked back at her, his expression filled with remorse, and his eyes turned glossy. He looked like he was struggling internally, as though he _wanted_ to speak, but something--fear, insecurity, shame--was keeping him from doing so. Seeing that he still wasn’t going to open up to her without help, Jemma tried again. 

“If you can’t talk to me,” she said, taking in a deep breath, “can I… will you let me hold you?” At Fitz’s raised eyebrow she added, quieter, “Maybe I can chase the nightmares away.”

Fitz choked on a sad, bitter laugh that tore at her heart, but after a pause he lifted his arm in invitation, making room for her. Jemma slowly crept up against his side, pillowing her head on his chest, then slid her arm over his waist. His arm came lightly around her shoulders and snugged her in and, after a second, she felt him relax. 

This was the closest they’d been to one another since that first night they’d spent together. Jemma could hear the rapid thump of Fitz’s heart beneath her ear, and knew hers was beating to match it. But it felt right being next to him like this, just as it had before, and she let that feeling settle over her like a warm blanket, hopefully soothing them both.

After a moment, she felt Fitz press the lightest of kisses to the top of her head, through her hair, and heard him say so quietly that she almost missed it, “Thank you.”

She just pulled herself even closer to him, like she could physically ward off his nightmares. Then she closed her eyes and focused on the soft rhythm of his breathing and the beating of his heart, and used it to eventually lull herself back to sleep.

-:-

When she woke up again later in the morning, Jemma was still in Fitz’s arms. They hadn’t moved a bit during the night, which told her one thing--he hadn’t had another bad dream, or at least not one severe enough to send him thrashing. Carefully shifting to look up at him, she found that his face was relaxed, peaceful even. She hadn’t seen him look so serene in at least a week.

Somehow sensing that he was being watched, Fitz inhaled before swallowing and blinking his eyes open. Then he looked down at her. It was so reminiscent of the first morning they’d woken up together that it made her heart stutter, and she nearly reached up to touch his face, just as she’d done then. But she fought down the urge, because the moment felt so fragile and she didn’t want to do anything to shatter it. Instead she smiled at him, hoping he couldn’t feel the racing of her heart.

“Good morning,” she said softly. “How’d you rest?”

Fitz smiled hesitantly back at her, and despite her muddled feelings Jemma couldn’t help but appreciate how handsome he looked, all rumpled and sleepy against the pillow. “Fine,” he murmured. “Really well, actually.”

She tried not to look too smug or triumphant--her suggestion of sleeping close together had worked out--but she had a feeling she was failing. She gently squeezed her arm around him before pulling away to sit up and push her hair over her shoulder. “That’s wonderful to hear. I’m going to go downstairs and start breakfast. Jam toast and an egg?”

Fitz simply nodded sleepily, still smiling back at her, and closed his eyes again. “I’ll be down right after you,” he said. “I just need another minute.”

Jemma couldn’t begrudge him a little bit of a lie-in, not if it meant he was actually well-rested. “Alright,” she said. “Just don’t stay so long that you miss the Tube and wind up late.”

“I won’t.” He waved a hand at her without opening his eyes. “Promise.”

Lingering just a little longer to enjoy seeing him look so content, Jemma finally got up to go to the bathroom and go through her morning routine. She was so glad that Fitz was smiling, and that it looked genuine. Maybe cuddling with him really did have an actual palliative effect, and it wasn’t just a coincidence. If that was the case, she would have to do it every night, which wouldn’t be a hardship at all. If her heart whispered that she was tip-toeing into territory she wasn’t yet ready to name, she ignored it. Waking up like this, calm and unbothered and seeing Fitz look the same, left her feeling cautiously optimistic for the future. Maybe she’d found a way in, and she could finally help Fitz start to heal from whatever it was that was troubling him. 


	12. Chapter 12

Sleeping snuggled up close to Fitz at night became a habit. At first Jemma asked permission, not wanting to overstep any boundaries, but after a couple of days he automatically made space for her next to him, and she immediately took the invitation. It seemed to work--he only had one more violent nightmare after they started falling asleep together, and though he did wake her up occasionally with his mumbling, it was a far sight better than the thrashing and the yelling that had been plaguing him.

Jemma grew used to waking up wrapped in Fitz’s arms, either held to his chest or lying on her side with him crowded against her back. It was rather nice, she finally admitted to herself after a week; she liked it. It still evoked memories of their first morning together, which were pleasant and warm and tinged golden, and which she didn’t mind remembering at all. But waking up with him like that began to reawaken certain feelings in her, ones that she thought she’d lost. She would open her eyes to see the way Fitz’s eyelashes fanned over his cheeks, and her heart would leap in her chest. Or she would shift slightly and his arms would unconsciously tighten around her, and her breath would catch her in throat. It made her feel like she could be that giddy girl once more, the one who had first fallen for him over soda fountain drinks and a late night conversation. 

But letting herself think too much on those feelings would force her to confront them, and left the door wide open for a tide of grief and regret over their separation to come rushing through, so Jemma tried her best to stem those thoughts. She would permit herself a moment or two each morning when she woke to lie in Fitz’s arms and find comfort in his presence, relishing the heat his body gave off (he was like a furnace, really), and then she would get up to start her day. Shifting her focus to chores and Ellie and Fitz’s health was a more productive use of her time, anyway.

He did seem to be doing better. He looked more well-rested, and his face didn’t look so pale and drawn anymore. He wasn’t as quiet and tetchy as he had been during that week where neither of them had gotten much sleep. He did lose his focus occasionally to stare off into the distance, but he was always quick to shake it off and give her a smile. She knew he was still hurting, but it was an improvement. Even if he was reluctant to open up to her, it was a relief to see him more back to his usual pleasant, kind self.

But one night as they were getting ready for bed, Fitz asked if he could talk to her. “Of course,” Jemma said, coming to sit next to him on the bed. “What’s on your mind?”

Fitz pressed his lips together and looked down at his lap. “I’ve been thinking a lot,” he started, “about what you said to me. About… not talking to you.” He lifted his head to look back up at her, and his eyes were heavy with guilt. “I never meant to make you think that I don’t trust you.”

Jemma’s heart dropped. “Oh, Fitz,” she said, automatically putting her hands out toward him, “that’s not what I meant at all--”

Even if it was, a bit. She’d wondered in her low moments if he didn’t trust her with his troubles. But she hadn’t wanted him to feel badly about it.

Fitz caught her hands and gently lowered them to the mattress between them. “You were still right,” he insisted. “I _should_ be able to talk to you. It’s just… difficult, because…” He sighed and looked down again. “Because I don’t want you to look at me any differently.”

Jemma swallowed, trying to parse his words, and curled her fingers around his where they rested on the bed. He looked so apprehensive. “What do you mean?” she asked, almost a little afraid of how he might answer.

He sighed again and tightened his hands around hers, appearing to marshal his courage. When he finally spoke, he kept his eyes trained on their hands, but his voice was mostly steady. “The war wasn’t all guts and glory,” he said. “Sometimes it was boring, but most of the time it was awful and scary. And… I had to do things that I’m not proud of.” He glanced up at her and gave her the quickest of weak smiles. “Things I never imagined having to do.”

Jemma shifted to take one of his hands between both of her own and stroked her thumb over the back of it, trying to give him some reassurance and encouragement. “I gathered as much from your column,” she said carefully. “It seemed like you were very candid and honest about your time there.”

Fitz shook his head, a sad twist to his mouth. “It’s not that. I mean, it _is_ , but… there’s so much more that I didn’t write about, worse things. I--I was dedicated to the truth and being honest, but--there were some things I just couldn’t report.” A shadow passed through his eyes. “We saw things we swore we’d never tell another living soul about.”

A light shudder ran through Jemma’s body. She could only guess at what he meant--the camps, maybe. They’d all heard about them, mostly whispered about in polite company, but coming more out into the open now that the war crimes trials were about to start in Nuremberg. She’d translated messages from the German Army that had referenced them when she worked at Bletchley. Imagining the horrors he might have seen, she asked, her heart in her throat, “The camps?”

Fitz simply inclined his head, which she took to be an affirmative, but there was something about his expression that told her he was thinking of other things, too. Lord only knew what. She ached for him, sure whatever she conjured up in her mind would pale in comparison to what he’d actually experienced. Afraid to ask and not wanting to pry, not when he looked so delicate and ready to shatter in front of her, she squeezed his hand. “You saw unimaginable things, yes,” she said softly. “And you were forced to take action out of necessity. You had to, in order to survive. But I genuinely believe you are a good man, and nothing you say could ever change my mind on that.”

Fitz smiled thinly, looking back up at her, and while she could see gratitude in his expression--he was thankful for her support--she knew he didn’t quite believe her. That would be something she would have to convince him of over time, she supposed. But she was prepared to do it.

“There’s something else,” he said, cutting into her thoughts, and it was clear from the tone of his voice that he was broaching a topic that was especially difficult for him. Wanting to reassure him, Jemma tightened her hand around his again. “Something I haven’t even told my mum,” he continued. “Because she would have worried too much about me.” He huffed a dry, humorless laugh. “But I, um… I was injured in France.”

Jemma swore her heart stopped. “What?” she gasped. “How? Where?” Her eyes roved over him, frantically searching for any sign of an injury; in the few months since they’d been reunited, Fitz had shown no outward signs of physical pain or illness, or anything else that might normally be associated with a war wound. She’d seen no scarring, either. But if it was this hard for him to talk about, it must have been something at least moderately serious.

“I was shot,” Fitz replied quietly, and pulled his hand away from hers to point to his left shoulder. Jemma’s already unsteady heart stuttered again as she let out another gasp. He watched her for a moment; then, after a pause, he bit his lip and moved to undo the top two buttons of his pajama shirt. Jemma felt her cheeks flush, not having expected such an intimate move, but stayed quiet as he pulled the collar aside to bare the top of his chest and shoulder. There, just below his collarbone, she saw a scar about the size of a shilling. It was round and puckered, and still faintly pink. 

Without thinking, Jemma raised a hand to touch it, but stopped just before she could. Looking him in the eye, she asked softly, “May I?”

Fitz simply nodded and watched as she gently laid her fingers on the wound. His skin was soft, but she could feel a small, hard knot beneath it where scar tissue had built up. She took a moment to soberly reflect on the fact that he’d been _shot_ and that perhaps he’d been right to keep that knowledge from his mother if her own horror and worry was anything to go by, before she let her hand drop back to her lap. “What happened?” she asked.

Fitz grimaced. “It was a schoolboy mistake,” he said ruefully, buttoning his shirt back up. “I should have been more careful. It… it was the day we dropped into Normandy.” He shook his head, and Jemma could feel the self-loathing rolling off of him in waves. “There was hardly anyone left in the squad I was assigned to and they were trying to complete their mission before the rest of the invading forces made landfall. So they needed my help. They, um, they’d captured a German officer and were holding him upstairs; they asked me to go and bring him down so we could move out. And…” He looked down at his hands in his lap. “He tricked me.”

“How?” Jemma asked, her heart in her throat.

He sighed. “He knocked me to the floor and went after my pistol,” he explained. Jemma was suddenly reminded of the memory of him thrashing in his sleep, crying out _don’t, don’t, stop_ , and wondered if that fight was what he had been living out in his dreams. “And when he got it, he started shooting. I got lucky. He had a sack over his head, so he was shooting blind. If he’d been able to see me, I’d be dead.” He pointed to his shoulder again. “I was hit here, but one of my squadmates was shot right in the chest. He…” An odd mix of emotions passed over his face. “He died.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jemma said quietly, her emotions twisting in sympathy. She reached out for his hand again, and he let her curl her fingers around his, giving her a weak smile in return.

“There wasn’t time to do anything for him before we had to leave,” Fitz continued, rubbing his free hand along his jaw. He looked tired now, drained. “Or for me. We had our mission to complete, you know. I didn’t get to see a medic for hours. It was--it was silly of me to think, I know that now, but at the time I was so afraid I was going to die, on my very first day in the field.”

Jemma didn’t really know what to say. She was trying to imagine what it must have been like for him, wounded behind enemy lines but having to ignore it until their objective was met. Fitz was so kind and mild-mannered most of the time that it was hard to picture him ever being dirty and blood-soaked, and she found that she actually didn’t want to. She’d tortured herself enough with those visions when she’d thought he was gone for good.

“But you didn’t,” she settled on saying, giving his hand another short squeeze. “I’m so thankful for that.”

Another ghost of a smile passed over Fitz’s face, and he looked back down at their hands. “There were so many times when I was _sure_ I was going to be killed,” he said. Then his shoulders slumped. “Toward the end, I--I even began to question if what I was doing was worth it, if the stories meant anything. If anyone besides my mum would miss me if I was gone.”

Jemma sucked in a soft gasp. “Don’t say that,” she said quickly, aghast. “I was heartbroken when I thought you’d died.”

His mouth twisted sadly. “You would have moved on eventually, I’m sure.”

It hurt her to hear him disregard himself so much, and she wanted to say that she wouldn’t have, that she _hadn’t_ , but the words stuck in her throat. She couldn’t say for sure whether she would have moved on one day or not. Besides, the point was moot now, anyway, because they were together.

Evidently taking her silence for agreement, Fitz hung his head. “I volunteered to be a correspondent because as a writer,  I felt a duty to tell the human story that was evolving on the front lines,” he mumbled. “But I think…” He sighed. “I think I might have--lost part of myself there, and I don’t know how to get it back. Or if I even can.” He looked back up at her, and his face was full of shame. “Does that make me weak?”

Jemma’s heart went out to him. “No, not at all,” she told him earnestly. “I think you were incredibly brave, doing what you did. And--” She picked up his hand between both of hers once more and clasped it tightly. “Even if you can’t find that lost part of yourself again, it doesn’t matter, because--I’ll still be with you, the whole way.” 

Which was true. They were good friends now at the very least, best friends even, and she’d sworn to stand by him in her wedding vows. That wasn’t something she took lightly.

Her words finally brought a genuine, if small, smile out of him, and Fitz reached up to briefly touch her cheek. Then he sighed again, and it was as if he was letting go of the weight of everything he had just confessed to her. He looked exhausted. “We should get some sleep,” he said. “Before we’re up all night talking, and Ellie has the run of us in the morning.”

Jemma laughed softly, realizing Fitz’s candid mood was over, and let go of his hand. “A brilliant idea,” she said, and got up to go around to her side of the bed. Fitz switched off the lamp, and they both crawled beneath the blankets. As had become their habit, he opened his arms to her and she curled up against his side, taking a moment to get comfortable. She could feel him relax when she did.

After a moment where both of them laid quietly in the dark, letting their breathing slow down and even out, she felt his fingers press a little more firmly into her shoulder. “I’m glad I’ve got you,” he said, so softly that she almost didn’t hear him.

Feeling her heart tug for him again, Jemma moved the hand resting on his chest to slip over his waist in a light hug. “I’m just doing my best to be a good wife,” she demurred.

Fitz’s hand tightened around her shoulder again. “Well, you’re doing an admirable job,” he said.

She smiled, a pleased, content warmth washing through her. She was glad she’d been able to bring him even a tiny measure of comfort, and even more thankful that he’d found the courage to open up to her. It hadn’t been the complete soul-baring that she had occasionally wished for, but it had still been a lot, and she thought she might have a better understanding of him now than she had that morning. Fitz had seen and done terrible things during the war and it had changed him, but deep down inside he was still the same good, wonderful man that she had first met. That was the thought that she let carry her as she closed her eyes and relaxed fully into his warmth, eventually drifting off into a peaceful sleep.

-:-

Jemma half-expected Fitz to have more unpleasant dreams that night, but he didn’t. At least, he slept through to the morning without waking her up, and he seemed unbothered when the alarm went off. Even better, there was a certain lightness to him in the days after their talk. It was subtle, but there; the things he carried with him that she didn’t even notice until they were gone had vanished, leaving things more open between them. It was like the rainclouds over his head had been blown away, and he talked to her more easily. Since Fitz was no longer trying to hide his pain from her as much, it had released some tension from him. Just as her closeness at night in bed helped, so had their discussion, and while he still had his rough moments, it felt like they had taken a step forward.

A few days later, Jemma received a letter from Bobbi in reply to the one she had sent seeking advice. _Lance only talks about the war when he’s had a lot to drink_ , Bobbi wrote. _Which is often, these days. Any mention of the war from me or others upsets him and makes him angry. He says he would rather forget it all._

Jemma frowned, feeling a pang of sympathy for her friend. It looked like Bobbi’s husband was having an even worse time than Fitz, which she supposed sadly made sense. He’d been in combat longer and thus endured the ravages of war for a longer period of time. Maybe he was having trouble adjusting back to civilian life.

 _Our men saw and did terrible things_ , Bobbi continued, _things beyond what any good man should be expected to do. That would change anyone. I think what they need is time. The only thing we can do is try to be as supportive and understanding as we can, and show them that as their wives our love isn’t conditional. It isn’t something to be earned or lost because of what they’ve done in duty for their country. They need us to be there for them, just as they’re here for us when we need them._

She went on to talk about how life and work was going in California, but Bobbi’s words about love and dependability stuck with Jemma, forcing her to think about something she’d been resolutely pushing away. Did she love Fitz?

As a friend, certainly. She adored him and would do anything to see him happy. As the father of her child, she couldn’t ask for a better partner: he was attentive, sweet, engaged, and he doted on Ellie. She knew perfection didn’t exist, but Fitz came close sometimes, even despite his troubles. She was happy in her life with him. But did her feelings run deeper? Was she _in_ love with him?

Jemma thought back to how devastated she’d been when she thought he’d been killed, and how overjoyed she’d been to find him again, even if it had sent the rest of her emotions into tumult. She thought of all the things he did for her and Ellie, the tiny countless small gestures that warmed her heart and gave her a deeper appreciation for him. She thought of how she always looked forward to him coming home from work, and how nice she felt their new sleeping arrangement was, how it made her heart flutter sometimes when she woke up in his arms. She thought about how seeing him with Ellie gave her a happiness unlike any other.

Did all of these feelings add up to love? She knew that before she had lost him, those feelings seemed to be leading her there. Now, she thought they might. She’d never been in love before, but she couldn’t imagine feeling more for someone than what she felt for Fitz currently. She just wasn’t sure she trusted her own emotions. Was the warmth of her heart only due to his proximity, his kindness, and how good a father he was? Or were they true? She’d heard him say he loved her, before their wedding. She was afraid of falling short somehow. What if her feelings for him weren’t ever enough, and she disappointed him?

Whatever it was she felt, all she knew for certain was that there was a grief of sorts that came with it. She still felt a great amount of remorse over the fact they hadn’t had a proper romance; she’d wanted that so much with him, all of the excitement and the rush of letters and dates and falling in love with each other the right way around. And while she really was content and happy with the life she had with Fitz now, a part of her felt like she was in mourning for what they had lost out on.

It was a very confusing jumble of feelings, and she didn’t know how to make sense of it.

-:-

Fitz pulled his coat closed tighter against the chilly October wind and walked a little faster down the pavement. He was on Russell Square, just a block away from his old flat at Queen Court, but he wasn’t having a walk to reminisce. He was on his way to visit the offices of the publishing company that had offered him a deal to write about his experiences in the war. He’d finally decided to accept the offer, and while he still had a few misgivings, overall he felt that the benefits would outweigh any potential drawbacks. That didn’t mean he wasn’t nervous about meeting with the editor, though, and all the potential ways the appointment could go were bouncing around his brain as he walked down the street.

When he reached the publishing house’s address, he skipped up the steps to the wide double doors of the terraced house the office was located in and went inside. Off to his left was a small reception room, and there behind her desk was the secretary he recognized from his other visits, pecking away at her typewriter. She looked up at him and smiled as he entered.

“Good morning,” she said cheerily. “Are you here to see Mr. Pearson?”

Fitz nodded. “Ah, yes--Leo Fitz. I’ve got an appointment to speak with him.”

She nodded back in reply. “If you’d like to take a seat, Mr. Fitz, I’ll go let him know that you’re here,” she said, standing up. “I’m sure he won’t be more than a few minutes.”

He sat down in one of the chairs she’d indicated as she left the room and took a deep breath. Now that he was actually there inside the building, his doubts were swirling around to the fore of his mind again, and he hoped he wasn’t making a terrible decision. He knew the process of writing the book would force him to dredge up and process through some difficult and painful memories, and the last thing he wanted to do was let it affect him and cause Jemma any more anxiety or hurt than he already had. She didn’t deserve that. 

The secretary came back in and smiled at him again as she sat back down, and he gave her a polite smile in return. Out of lack for anything else to do, he picked up a copy of the _Evening Standard_ that had been left on the seat next to him and stared blankly at the headlines on the front page. He could do this. He owed it to his squadmates, and he owed it to Jemma. He just needed to sort himself out.

Finally, Mr. Pearson arrived in the doorway: a tall, well-dressed man with a salt-and-pepper mustache and a receding hairline. “Mr. Fitz?” he asked.

“Mr. Pearson, it’s good to see you,” Fitz said, standing and walking over to him to shake his hand. 

The older man laughed as they shook. “Good to see you too,” he said. “I was beginning to think you’d never come back.” When Fitz only looked slightly chagrined, he laughed again and added, “Let’s go have a chat in my office.”

The two of them left the reception room and went up the staircase to a small room with a desk, bookshelf, and two chairs, cluttered with books, stacks of papers, and manuscripts. Mr. Pearson gestured for him to have a seat while he sat in his own chair behind the desk. “So,” he said, folding his hands on top of a sheaf of papers and looking him in the eye, “how has life been treating you, Mr. Fitz? It’s been a while since we last spoke.”

Fitz shrugged demurely. “It’s been going well, mostly. I’ve moved out to Chiswick with my wife and daughter.”

Mr. Pearson’s eyebrows went up. “Wife?” he asked, sounding shocked. “Daughter? You never mentioned a family in any of our meetings before.”

Fitz tried not to grimace. “Ah,” he said, just a little awkwardly. The last time they’d had a face-to-face meeting was just before he’d run into Jemma that fateful day at the zoo. “It, ah, it--it didn’t feel relevant.”

“Not relevant?” Mr. Pearson barked, laughing again. “A man at war, away from his wife and child, adds a whole new dimension to the story. It will make you even more sympathetic. I think it’s extremely relevant.”

But not as much as he might like, Fitz thought to himself. Jemma and therefore Ellie were almost completely absent from the narrative during his time on the front lines. They might make a heart-tugging endnote to his story, but that was it. Also, he thought, that would require telling the truth about his relationship with Jemma, and spoiling the story her mother had constructed for them. But those were things he could worry about later. He turned his focus back to Mr. Pearson.

“Speaking of your story,” he was saying, “You mentioned when you called that you’d come to a decision on the offer?”

Here it was. Fitz swallowed nervously. “Yes,” he replied. “I’d like to accept it.”

A wide grin broke out over Mr. Pearson’s face. “Excellent!” he cried. “I know I’ve not tried to persuade you one way or the other on this, but you’ve made the right decision, I promise you. Your articles in the _Telegraph_ were such a success during the war and I have a very strong belief in the public’s interest for a more thorough, comprehensive tale of your adventures.”

Fitz managed a polite smile. He knew his column had been popular; his editors at the _Telegraph_ had told him as much while he was away and had encouraged him to send in missives as often as he could. He just felt an odd sort of shyness about the general public possibly still being so interested in his story.

“James Smith became something of a celebrity here in London during the last year of the war,” Mr. Pearson said, smiling. “You should enjoy your anonymity while you still can, Mr. Fitz. Because once your memoir is published, everyone will know who you really are.”  
  
That nearly made a cold sweat break out on Fitz’s forehead, and he felt his palms go clammy. Everyone would know who he was. On the surface, he knew Mr. Pearson just meant that his real name would be revealed, out from behind the pseudonym--but his character would be laid bare, too. What if who he really was, was just a scared, weak young man who barely scraped by, who could barely keep himself together now?

He managed to keep his composure, though, and even laugh quietly at the joke. “I’ll do my best, sir,” he said.

From there, Mr. Pearson produced a contract for Fitz to read over and sign, and said that if he came back the following morning they would have his advance of £350 ready. Fitz was so excited about that he could barely keep himself from buzzing. He’d never seen that much money collected together in one spot in his life, and now it was going to be his and Jemma’s. He couldn’t wait to tell her; hopefully, she would be thrilled. 

When everything was signed and ready to be filed, they shook on it, and Mr. Pearson walked Fitz downstairs to the door. “I’m looking forward to working together on this,” he said. “I think we’ll be able to produce something truly magnificent.”

Fitz smiled politely again as he buttoned his coat. “Here’s hoping,” he said humbly. “I’ll keep you updated on my progress.”

They shook hands one more time, and Fitz headed back out into the blustery autumn weather, ducking his head against the wind. His stomach felt like it was a mass of conflicting emotions. Again, he hoped he was making the right decision.

-:-  

Later that evening after dinner and after Ellie had been put to bed for the night, Jemma was keeping one eye on Fitz as she struggled with her knitting. He was supposed to be reading a new book to review for the paper--tonight it was _The Commodore_ \--but she could tell he wasn’t really focused on it. He hadn’t turned a page in several minutes, and he kept uncrossing and crossing his ankles. She couldn’t help but be concerned that he might be preoccupied with bad memories; he’d told her the book was the latest in the Horatio Hornblower series, detailing the fictional captain’s exploits at sea, and maybe it had indirectly reminded him of the war. His expression didn’t _look_ troubled, though, but she couldn’t imagine what else might be distracting him.

She was just wondering if she should gently ask him if he was alright when he abruptly snapped the book shut and set it aside on the end table. “I had an appointment with a publisher today,” he said, apropos of nothing.

Jemma blinked at him and lowered her knitting needles to her lap. “Oh?” she asked curiously. “What about?”

Fitz swallowed. “The book deal I was offered, the one I told you about,” he said. When she nodded for him to continue, he took in a deep breath. “I, ah… I decided to accept it.”

“Really?” Jemma properly dropped her knitting as a pleased smile came over her face. “That’s wonderful! I mean--as long as you truly want to do it,” she amended.

Fitz smiled back at her, slightly hesitant and only a little self-deprecating. “I’m mostly sure I do,” he said. “I still have a few doubts about it, but I think… um, I think I can go through with it.”

Jemma let her expression turn soft, wanting to give him encouragement. “Then I’m proud of you,” she said warmly. “I’ll be here to help you however you need it.”

In return, his smile grew more genuine, and he ducked his head a little bashfully. “Thank you. Who knows… maybe writing about everything will help me sort it all and I can move on. I don’t have a deadline to meet, so I won’t be rushed and I can take my time. Mr. Pearson seems to be a good man.” He paused to look briefly down at his hands in his lap. “He said I can come by tomorrow to collect the advance they agreed to give me.” Then his eyes flicked over to hers. “It’s £350.”

Jemma’s jaw dropped. “What?!” she gasped. “Three hundred and fifty pounds? Fitz--that’s--”

Her family was fairly well-off, but that was still a large amount of money. Some of the poorer families in the city might not even see that much income in an entire year. For a moment, she was dazzled by all of the things that could be possible with that much money: funds put away for Ellie for when she was older, a brand-new china set, all of the books they could ever want, a new camera for Fitz, or maybe even a car, as frivolous as that would be.

Fitz, meanwhile, was nodding at her shock. “I know, it’s a lot,” he said, managing to sound equal parts proud and meek. “But it will help with some of the strain we’ve been under after having to spend all of that money filling up our house when we first moved in, yeah?”

Jemma blinked at him. “I would think so, yes,” she replied, her mind still boggling at their new modest fortune. “It would do more than help.”

At her favorable response, Fitz straightened up in his seat a bit and shifted to face her more. “And you know, it had me thinking, too. I know you said that you’re happy here at home with Ellie, but now that we have this, perhaps we could afford to hire some help?” When she tilted her head at him, he rushed to add, “Just to give you a bit of a break. And maybe more time for you to work on your translations for your father, if you wanted to.”

Just like she had been when he had offered to stay at home with Ellie, Jemma was a little taken aback and surprised by Fitz’s suggestion. But she could see that he was serious, so she tried to give it some proper consideration. Was having hired help really necessary? She didn’t feel overrun by her daily chores, and Ellie was an easy baby to care for. Reflecting on that, it was a simple decision to make.

“I do appreciate the offer,” she said kindly, smiling at Fitz. “But I think I’m doing just fine on my own. Taking care of the house and Ellie on my own isn’t hard as it is, and I still have plenty of time for my extra translation work when Ellie’s napping. Besides--” Her smile turned a little teasing. “If we _did_ hire a charlady, imagine the scandal it would cause on our street. The neighbors might think we were taking on airs.”

That got a laugh out of Fitz, and he shook his head. “You’re right. It would probably cause some talk.”

“Anyway,” Jemma said, “I like our little family the way it is, just the three of us. I think we do well for ourselves.”

A genuine smile bloomed on his face, one of the rare ones that lit up his eyes from within and made them shine. “Yeah?” he asked.

She nodded, feeling especially warm toward him. “Of course.”

A comfortable silence fell over them then, where Jemma attempted to return to her knitting and Fitz picked his book back up. Then the music on the wireless, which had been playing softly in the background, changed and she recognized the familiar opening strains of “I’m Getting Sentimental Over You”.

It took her instantly back to the night she’d first met Fitz and the dance they’d shared. Unable to help herself, she snuck a look at him, only to find that he was already looking back at her. When their eyes met, he gave her a tentative, small smile.

“It’s our song,” he said quietly, and her heart skipped a beat to hear that he remembered it, too. When she nodded in reply, he took in a deep breath and asked, “Would you, um, like to dance? For old time’s sake.”

Jemma couldn’t believe her ears, not when he’d confessed to disliking dancing so much that night at Rainbow Corner, so long ago. But she was already nodding again, a sudden fierce longing to be close to him the way she had then pushing up to the forefront of her heart. At her acceptance, Fitz put his book back down and stood, holding a hand out to her. Her body buzzing with anticipation, Jemma carefully set her knitting down in the basket next to her chair and stood as well, stepping toward him to take his hand.

It was warm when she slipped her fingers around his, and when she looked up he was still smiling softly at her as he pulled her a few steps away to the center of the sitting room. Then he pulled her gently to him and slid an arm around her waist while she settled her free hand on his shoulder, and guided her into an easy sway back-and-forth to the slow beat of the music.

At first, Jemma couldn’t look directly at him, instead staring at a point somewhere around his chin, or his shirt collar. Everything was just so _much_. She arguably spent every night closer to him than this with their new sleeping arrangement, but this _felt_ closer. Different. More deliberate. She felt hyper-aware of Fitz and his entire presence: his touch, his nearness, the scent of the soap he used, the sound of his breathing. It at once put her on edge and made her want to drown in it, all of the questions and the confusion she had regarding her feelings for him suddenly seeming small and insignificant. Then he started to talk.

“One of the soldiers in the platoon I was with carried a small radio with him,” he murmured after they’d been dancing in silence for a moment or so. “He’d turn it on at night sometimes and whenever this song played, I’d think of you, even though you’d stopped writing to me.”

Jemma finally looked up at him, and found herself arrested by his face. He was watching her intently, his eyes tender, the barest hint of a smile still on his lips. A little bittersweet, given the topic, but mostly warm and gentle and kind. She couldn’t look away now, her heart beating unsteadily in her chest.

“It let me feel like we still had something connecting us,” Fitz continued. “That maybe, somewhere, you were listening and thinking of me, too.” He gave her hand that he was holding a light squeeze as they turned in another circle, his smile going crooked. “Silly, I know.”

It wasn’t silly at all, she thought. It was the most absurdly romantic thing anyone had ever said to her, and she loved him for it. Really, truly loved him.

She was in love with Fitz.

The knowledge broke over her like a wave, washing away the doubt and the grief and the uncertainty, leaving her with the simple fact that no one in the world save Ellie mattered to her as much as he did, and that she’d already irretrievably lost her heart to him a long time ago. 

“It’s not silly,” she said breathlessly, her mouth feeling dry. “I _did_ think of you whenever I heard it. So, you were right.”

Fitz’s only response was to smile a little wider, looking pleased and a little shy, and tighten his arm around her. Jemma was completely caught up in him, lost in his eyes and his smile, and was overwhelmed with the desire to kiss him. She wanted it so badly she ached, could almost taste him on her lips. But it had been so long, their brief, chaste kiss at their wedding notwithstanding--would it be the same as she remembered? Or would it be new and different and wonderful all on its own? It would be so easy. All she had to do was lean up on her toes, and Fitz, who was still watching her as they danced, his eyes never leaving hers, looked like he might even accept it. She felt herself swaying toward him, pulled as though by a magnet, eager to start another new chapter in their lives together--

The shrill tones of a BBC Radio advertisement cut through the scant space between them like a knife, and they both let out a short yelp as they flinched and stepped back from each other, the moment shattering around them. Then Jemma looked up at Fitz just as he looked back, and they both broke out into nervous laughter, their hands falling away from each other.

“That was a shock,” Fitz said rather unnecessarily, squeezing the one hand of hers that he still held.

Jemma nodded, her heart fluttering wildly in her throat, and took a deep breath. A more upbeat tune came over the wireless, and she managed to give him a teasing smile. “Want to go another round?” she asked, desperately hoping he would say yes despite already knowing the answer.

Fitz laughed again. “Ah, no,” he replied lightly, giving her hand one more squeeze before letting it go. “Maybe some other time.”

Realizing the moment was well and truly over, Jemma let him retreat back to his armchair and his book while she went back to her knitting. But her heart was still pounding a staccato rhythm, and she felt lightheaded with the enormity of her epiphany.

And she still wanted to kiss him.


	13. Chapter 13

The cool, crisp air of autumn gave way to the bitter chill of winter and as the weeks passed, Ellie continued to grow and blossom. She was more active than ever, babbling constantly and trying to get her hands on anything she could reach. She’d long since mastered crawling and she enjoyed being mobile, scooting around the sitting room when her parents permitted it; now she made frequent attempts to pull herself up on the furniture, taking her first tentative steps toward walking.

While Jemma didn’t mind letting her have her freedom, she felt that it would be safer for Ellie to stay confined to her playpen, her cot, or even her high chair while she cooked or did her other chores. She just couldn't keep as close an eye on her daughter as she wanted while she was busy, and she didn't want her to get into something that might injure her. 

As a result, Ellie began to cry. A _lot_. Jemma knew it was just frustration because Ellie was being kept from what she wanted to do--explore--and didn’t understand why, and also lacked the ability to express it any other way, but it was driving her mad. She had been such a sweet, even-tempered baby up until now, and her descent into irritable fussiness felt almost like a betrayal of the pact they had made to always stick together when Ellie was born. Which Jemma knew was patently silly, because Ellie wasn’t capable of making promises of any sort at her age, but still--her sudden mood change was difficult to deal with, to say the least.

Jemma made do the best she could. She hurried to complete her chores in the morning while Ellie wailed away, gritting her teeth and trying not to let the sound of her daughter’s cries overwhelm or stress her. But it was easier said than done. The faster she was done cooking and cleaning, the sooner she could let Ellie out to crawl around and play. Jemma felt that a happy baby was much better than a crying baby, no matter what the doctor or her parents or the books she’d read said. Her mother would probably say she needlessly fussed over Ellie and gave her too much attention, but Jemma was just following her gut instinct, which said that a little bit of doting wouldn’t harm her daughter at all.

“Oh, I remember those days,” Harriet said one morning in late November as Jemma paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, lightly bouncing a crying Ellie on her hip. “Sometimes they just cry and cry and there’s nothing that will calm them. I told you my son had colic, didn’t I?” When Jemma hummed a confirmation, she added, “Nothing helped with him, it seemed like. He just had to cry himself out.”

Jemma frowned and stroked a hand over the top of Ellie’s head before returning to rub small circles into her back, trying everything she could to soothe her daughter’s tears. “Nothing helped?” she asked. “Nothing at all?”

“Holding him would help,” Harriet replied, then laughed. “But a mother can’t be expected to hold her baby all day long, not when there’s so much else to be done around the house! _Especially_ if there’s more children to mind. No, I just had to be patient and wait it for it all to pass.”

Ellie’s cries had quieted down to sniffles, but tears still streaked her chubby cheeks, and Jemma continued to frown as she gently wiped at them with her thumb. “Wait?” she echoed worriedly, glancing over at Harriet as she continued to pace. “How long did it last?”

Harriet pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I think Nicholas finally calmed down when he was coming on two years old. But by then, he was getting into everything, so it was one thing traded for another.”

Jemma looked back down at her daughter, her frown growing. “Ellie’s not even a year old,” she said. “Oh, having to possibly wait a year… please don’t get me wrong, she’s still such a sweet girl, but all of this crying…” She sighed. “I just don’t know how other mums handle it.”

Harriet smiled sympathetically. “Not all babies are as fussy as Nicholas was. Lillian hardly ever cried at all, she was a dream. Maybe Ellie is just having a difficult time of it right now and she’ll get past it soon.”

“I hope so,” Jemma murmured, brushing her hand over Ellie’s hair again. She responded by ducking her head into the crook of Jemma’s neck, seeking out her mother’s warmth, and Jemma held her a bit tighter. In a moment like this, with her daughter snuggled close, she felt like she could handle the struggles that inevitably came with motherhood, even if she occasionally had doubts. 

Fitz was spared the brunt of the baby troubles just by being away at work most of the day, but not even he could escape it completely. If he tried to take even a moment for himself in the evenings while Jemma was cooking dinner, Ellie would become irritable and cry for attention. Jemma could see the strain beginning to show on his face, and she thought that it couldn’t be good at all for his stress and nerves. So she tried her best to keep Ellie occupied and happy while Fitz was home, in an effort to make life a little easier on him. Sometimes, though, it just couldn’t be helped and they both had to suffer through an evening full of unhappy baby until they finally got her settled down and asleep for the night. Then they both would collapse into their respective armchairs in the sitting room in utter exhaustion, and trade very little conversation until it was time for bed themselves.

Other times, Fitz handled things perfectly all on his own. If Ellie was grumbly or tearful, he would swoop in and sit her on his lap, then read aloud to her from whatever book he happened to be reading for work. He’d let her fumble at turning the pages herself, and ask her opinion of the book as though she could actually answer. Occasionally he would talk to her like they were having a conversation, asking her what he should write about. If Ellie was especially restless, Fitz would hold her up by her hands and guide her to stumble around unsteadily on her feet, walking her around the sitting room. The sound of his encouraging words mixed with Ellie’s giggles was one of Jemma’s favorite sounds. 

It made her heart ache in the sweetest sort of way to see Fitz be such a good, patient father despite his personal woes, and it only made her love him more. She was certain of that now, that she loved him; the feelings that she’d realized the night they’d danced to their song on the wireless hadn’t gone away. They’d only gotten stronger. Now they filled her thoughts and preoccupied her to the point that it felt as though her every action was wrapped in love. And while it was a relief to finally have clarity on what she felt for Fitz, Jemma was no longer sure of the depth of his feelings for her _._  

He was as sweet and kind as he’d always been, but there was nothing that hinted at _more_. Aside from that one dance and a few affectionate but chaste kisses to the forehead, Fitz had never done anything that suggested he had a deeper romantic interest in her. He’d never pushed for a physical relationship, despite being her husband. If he wasn’t going to initiate anything, she was reluctant to do it herself; she still worried that she’d forced him into marriage, after all. That was quite enough obligation to be going on with.

Jemma often found herself thinking of their wedding day and how she’d overheard Fitz say that he loved her. She wondered if it was still true, and if it was, why he was choosing to keep silent. But it seemed much more likely that things were different now, and he only viewed her as a good friend. It was a painful idea to contemplate, that he’d fallen out of love with her as he’d come to know her better while she’d only fallen harder for him, but she didn’t know what else to think. Perhaps he’d just been infatuated and mistaken it for love. They hadn’t known each other for very long at that point.

But she didn’t want to bring the subject up with him, for fear of upsetting the balance of the life they had. Things were good: they had an easy, comfortable friendship and Fitz obviously did care for her, even if it wasn’t in a romantic sense. He was a wonderful father to Ellie, and they weren’t struggling to make ends meet. Did she dare broach the subject of love and risk pushing him away if he didn’t feel the same?

She couldn’t. The potential consequences turned her stomach. She couldn’t afford to let Ellie get caught between two parents who were at odds with each other.

So Jemma kept her feelings to herself and went about her days as she always had, treating Fitz just the same, ignoring the irony in keeping silent just the way she had questioned him doing to her.

-:-

Early one afternoon in December, Jemma was in the kitchen taking stock of her pantry and making a list of the items she needed to pick up from the shops when she heard the doorbell ring. Knowing Fitz had Ellie in the sitting room, she straightened up and called out, “I’ll get it,” before heading into the hall.

When she opened the door, wincing at the blast of cold air that swept in, she was greeted by a young man of average height with dark hair and eyes, who was leaning slightly on a cane. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him. “Can I help you?” she asked politely.

The man nodded, looking past her into the depths of the house. “Yeah, does Leo Fitz live here?”

Jemma was surprised to hear that he had a rather distinctive American accent, and it threw her off for a second. “Yes,” she replied, blinking. “Can I get your name?”

He opened his mouth to answer her, but before he could say anything, Fitz came rushing into the hall behind her, holding Ellie. When he saw who was on their doorstep, his mouth fell open. “ _Tibbet_?” he cried.

Jemma looked from Fitz back to the man on their doorstep--Tibbet--in time to see his eyes light up in recognition, but again, before he could speak, Fitz came forward to join her at the door. “I thought you’d been sent back to America,” he said.

Tibbet shook his head. “No, I’ve been here this whole time.” Then he grimaced. “Can I come in? It’s freezing out here.”

“Oh! Yes, yes of course.” Jemma and Fitz both mumbled their apologies and stepped over each other in their haste to make room for Tibbet to come inside, and once the door was closed behind him, Fitz adjusted his grip on Ellie and smiled.

“Jemma, this is James Tibbet,” he said, nodding at the other man. “He’s one of my squadmates from the army, like Jacob Rosenfeld, who sent the toy monkey--remember him?” Jemma nodded. “He was injured at Bastogne and taken away to an army hospital here in England.” He turned back to Tibbet. “But I thought you were sent home after Ed and I came to visit you.”

Tibbet shook his head again. “My legs were too messed up.” He pointed at his cane with his free hand. “So they kept me around longer. But hey, holy shit, look at you!” He grinned at Fitz. “You’ve got a kid!”

Fitz frowned in disapproval. “Language,” he said, holding Ellie a little closer.

Rolling his eyes, Tibbet said, “What? It can’t understand me.”

“She,” Fitz corrected.

“She, he, whatever. What’s her name?”

“Eleanor,” Fitz replied. “But we call her Ellie.” Jemma bit her lip to hold back an amused smile as he handed their daughter off to her; she’d gotten wriggly and was reaching out for her mother. Fitz placed a light hand on Jemma’s back and took a half-step in toward her. “And this is my wife, Jemma.”

Tibbet squinted at her, leaning on his cane as he tipped forward to get a closer look. “Are you the girl he ran off with that night at Rainbow Corner?”

At the mention of the service club, Jemma was finally able to place where she had seen him before. Tibbet had been the leader of the pack of soldiers that Fitz had come in with, the one who had insisted he talk to her and Bobbi and Alice. She supposed she owed him a debt, in a way. She wouldn’t be where she was now if it weren’t for him. Laughing, she replied, “Yes, that was me.”

Grinning again, Tibbet smacked Fitz on the arm. “Incredible. I can’t believe you knocked up the first girl you ever touched. And _married_ her.” He looked aside at Jemma. “You’re way out of his league.”

Pink bloomed in Fitz’s cheeks and he ducked his head, but he was smiling. “Yes, well… here we are,” he said, stroking his hand once up and down her back.

Watching the two of them, it seemed like this kind of banter wasn’t unusual for them, and that Fitz didn’t mind being teased--not anymore, or not by Tibbet at least. Letting her smile grow, she said, “I’m sorry, we’ve forgotten our manners. Would you like to come into the sitting room?”

“Oh yeah, sure,” Tibbet said, and made to follow Fitz down the hall and through the door. He wasn’t relying too heavily on his cane but he was still walking with care, and Jemma thought he might like to get off of his feet for a little while.

She followed them into the sitting room, watching Ellie observe their visitor with wide, blue eyes. Wanting to be hospitable, she asked, “Can I get you some tea?”

Fitz murmured “Yes, please,” but Tibbet made a sour face as he lowered himself into the seat by the fireplace. “Oh, no thank you,” he said. “I don’t know how you can drink that stuff, it tastes like shit.”

“ _Language_.” Fitz glanced at her and Ellie before giving his friend another exasperated look.

Tibbet rolled his eyes again. “Like you’ve never said that or worse.” He looked up at Jemma. “I’ll have a glass of water, or even some of that swill you guys call coffee if you have some.”

Jemma nodded, fighting back another smile at the thought of Fitz swearing, and turned to go. As she did, she heard Tibbet say, “I’d kill for a soda right now. When are you guys going to get real Coca-Cola here? It’s a real pain having to go to the service club just to get some…”

After getting Ellie settled in her high chair by the back door to the kitchen, Jemma made a cup of tea for Fitz and poured a glass of water for Tibbet. After she delivered them, she busied herself in the kitchen and tried to stay out of their way, to give them space to talk properly and visit, though she did stick her head in from time to time to see if they needed anything. She could hear Tibbet’s voice, which naturally carried, though she couldn’t pick out what he was saying. There was a fair bit of laughter, too, which left her with a warmth in her heart. It was good to hear Fitz laugh, especially over conversation that might include bits about the war. It was probably inevitable when talking to a former squadmate, but if he could find something light in it, that could only be a good thing as far as she was concerned.

When the afternoon started to wind down, Jemma went back into the sitting room to ask Tibbet if he would like to stay for dinner. He appeared to consider it for a moment, then shook his head.

“No offense to your cooking,” he said, “but I’d rather take shrapnel to the legs again than eat more English food. I’ve had enough of it.”

Jemma stifled a laugh behind one hand. He said it with such a lack of true rancor that it was hard to be offended. “Really?” she asked, amused.

“He’s joking,” Fitz said.

“I’m not,” Tibbet shot back. “You remember all those English rations we had to eat? They were disgusting, and the food they push on me at the hospital isn’t much better.”

Fitz looked like he was holding back a grin, too. “I didn’t think they were so bad.”

Tibbet _tsked_. “Yeah, _you_ didn’t, because you’re used to that crap. The rest of us were used to _real_ food.”

Jemma laughed, unable to keep from thinking of the times her mother had been forced to cook dinner when Mrs. Wilson had been pulled away elsewhere. Her attempts weren’t completely inedible, but it had been a definite downgrade in quality. Perhaps the American soldiers had been given the least palatable of the rations produced.

“Jemma’s really come a long way with her cooking,” Fitz said, smiling up at her. “I think you’d like anything she made.”

“I’m sure she has,” Tibbet replied easily, “but I think I’d like to get in one more real American burger at the service club before I ship out tomorrow.” When Fitz turned back to look at him with raised eyebrows, he added, “Yeah, I really am going home now. It’s about time, too.” Then he looked out the window. “And I’d probably better get going. It’s a long ride back into the city.”

Fitz and Jemma both protested, saying he didn’t have to leave, but Tibbet insisted he didn’t want to wear out his welcome. So he carefully stood from his seat and took his cane back up, and they walked him to the front door.

“It was good to see you, Tibbet,” Fitz said, a hint of solemnity underlying his tone. “Really good.” Then he stepped forward to embrace him like a brother. Tibbet’s eyes went wide, startled, but he returned it with only a little bit of awkwardness. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, patting Fitz’s back. “Don’t go getting all mushy on me.”

Fitz laughed and stepped back. Then his eyes lit up as if he’d just remembered something, and he held up a finger. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “I’ve got something for you. Don’t leave.” He turned and darted up the stairs. Jemma watched him go, then looked at Tibbet. He looked just as clueless as she was, and he shrugged. A moment later Fitz came bounding back down the stairs holding something small in his hands, which turned out to be a photograph. He held it out to Tibbet. “Here. I developed this after I got back. Thought you might like to have it.”

Tibbet took the photo from him, and in the glimpse Jemma got of it, she saw that it was of a man in combat uniform--himself, most likely--sitting next to a young boy, who looked to be wearing his helmet. Tibbet’s eyes roved over it for a second before he snorted softly. “Always with the damn camera,” he said, but if she wasn’t mistaken, she thought she heard a note of affection in his voice. Then he slipped the photo into his breast pocket and looked to Jemma. “Keep this one in line, alright? I know he doesn’t look like it, but he can be a real pain in the ass when he wants to be.”

Fitz just smiled and shook his head. Jemma smiled too, feeling a surge of affection for her husband, and said, “I promise to do my best.”

Seemingly satisfied, Tibbet nodded and turned to open the door. “I’ll write when I get back home,” he told Fitz. Then he was gone, his cane tapping down the pavement in the direction of the high street and the Underground station.

“He seems like a nice man,” Jemma said once they’d shut the door against the cold winter air again.

Fitz huffed a soft laugh. “I’m not sure ‘nice’ is the word I would use to describe him,” he replied. At her questioning look, he added, “We didn’t get on well at first, but war has a funny way of binding people together. I’d trust him with my life now.”

Jemma knew she couldn’t fully understand what Fitz meant, not having gone through anything like it herself, but she knew how she’d bonded with Bobbi and the rest of the girls at Bletchley, so perhaps she could sympathize in a way. “You’re glad you got to see him, then?” she asked.

He nodded, his smile crinkling up his eyes at the corners. “Yeah. I am.”

A loud screech spoiled the quiet of the hall then, and Jemma let out a startled laugh, pressing a hand to her chest. “Oh! She can be very insistent sometimes, can’t she?” she said, smoothing down the front of her dress. “Let’s go see what little Miss Fitz needs, yeah?” She turned to head for the kitchen, her focus back on her daughter and the meal she still needed to make.

She expected Fitz to have nightmares that night, the way he usually did when he was overtly reminded of the war, but to her surprise he didn’t. He might have held her a bit tighter as they drifted off to sleep, but he didn’t wake up sweating and disoriented, and he didn’t talk in his sleep. Jemma was grateful for it. Maybe it meant he was healing, even just a little. 

-:-

December passed slowly by and as Christmas approached, for the first time in years it felt like there was truly a reason to celebrate. The war was over now and everyone was back home with their families, and even though London was still rebuilding and they were still on the ration, things were getting better. 

Jemma was looking forward to her first holiday at home with Fitz and Ellie. She’d managed to purchase and hide away a few gifts for each of them, and they had a small tree in the sitting room that they’d decorated. Fitz had looked so proud of it once he’d finished setting it all up, and he’d stood by with a smile as Jemma held Ellie and let her take in the colorful lights and shining tinsel with her curious eyes.

“It looks beautiful, Fitz,” she said, admiring his handiwork. “Truly. You did an excellent job. And Ellie likes it too, don’t you?” She looked at their daughter, letting her grasp onto her hand and angling her so she could see the tree better.

Fitz shrugged and put his hands on his hips, clearly trying to play at being humble. “Well, it’s our first Christmas together,” he reasoned. “I thought we should have a proper tree. We, um… we only had one once or twice when I was young, but I want Ellie to have one every year.”

“Then she can have one every year,” Jemma replied, smiling at Ellie, who was still staring avidly at the twinkling tree lights. “This can be the start of a new tradition.”

The advent of the Christmas season also brought about a small host of social obligations. There was the fête they attended held at the church on Turnham Green, which featured drinks and music and Christmas crackers made by the parish children. There was another party hosted by the _Telegraph_ for its employees and their spouses, where Fitz seemed very proud to introduce Jemma as his wife. They even took Ellie and went round to Harriet’s for cheese and biscuits, and were finally able to meet her husband Peter.

Then there was the yearly Christmas party put on by her father’s club. Jemma wasn’t particularly looking forward to it, as she felt like she no longer moved in those social circles and was still smarting a bit from the lies her mother had told when she was pregnant, but she knew it would likely reflect poorly on her parents if she and Fitz didn’t attend. But the only alternative was taking the train up to Glasgow to visit Fitz’s mum, which was an idea she liked even less. Jemma knew Fitz loved his mother, but she also knew she’d yet to make it into her good graces, and believed that a few days spent visiting would only be awkward for everyone involved.

Fitz was ambivalent about going to the party, thinking it couldn’t possibly be any worse than the time he’d already spent in their company. He’d made good on her father’s invitation to spend a Saturday afternoon with him at the club, in the interest of building a better relationship with his father-in-law, but he said it had been nothing but politics and expensive alcohol. He’d found it dreadfully boring. Apparently her father had been considerate enough to try and keep him engaged in the conversation, but Fitz had preferred to stick to his scotch and speak only when directly asked a question.

“I know some of them fought in the first War,” he said, referring to her father’s friends. “So they know what it’s like. But I still don’t think they would have liked to hear my opinion on how the Allies are handling Germany right now.”

That was something everyone had an opinion on these days, but Fitz had kept his thoughts close to his chest. Still, Jemma figured that a few hours spent drinking and dancing amongst some of London’s professional elite wouldn’t be so bad as long as she and Fitz stuck together. So after leaving Ellie with Mrs. Wilson for the evening, they traveled to the hotel where the party was being held and prepared themselves for a night of mingling.

Jemma kept sneaking glances at Fitz as they walked inside. He was wearing his full Sunday suit, and she thought he looked very handsome in the warm grey tweed, especially with the addition of the waistcoat. She herself had managed to squeeze into a dress she had from before she’d fallen pregnant and she felt a little self-conscious about how it fit, but Fitz had told her that she looked nice, so she supposed that was all that mattered.

After checking their coats, they headed into the main ballroom and immediately looked for Jemma’s parents. It didn’t take long to locate them, and after going through the requisite cheek kisses and handshakes, Fitz and Jemma took stock of the party.

“It’s a bit posh, isn’t it?” he said, looking around at the people spread out before them. There was a small band playing and a few couples were already dancing, but it wasn’t anything like the loud, upbeat atmosphere of Rainbow Corner. The music was quieter, for one thing; the crowd was older, and everyone was much more well-dressed. The whole atmosphere felt rather staid in comparison.

“It is,” Jemma agreed, smiling to herself as she hooked a hand around his elbow. “Nothing like our last party, is it?”

Fitz looked aside at her, and when he saw that she was smiling, his lips twitched up into a grin of his own. “Not a bit,” he replied. “Come on, let’s go find something to drink.”

No sooner did they have drinks in hand than they were set upon by the first of her parents’ friends, and from there Jemma and Fitz spent a while making small talk. Many of them were pleased to see her again after her work had kept her away for a few years, and those who hadn’t been privy to the gossip of her mum’s WVS group were surprised to find that she was married--even more so to learn that they already had a child together. Jemma happily introduced Fitz as her husband and when the questions invariably turned to what he did for a living (because of course he, not she, was the one who worked, as was typical in society), he had to confess that he was a writer.

Once everyone found out that Fitz had been a war correspondent, he was celebrated as something of a hero, especially by those who had kept up with his column. Then it was all they wanted to talk about. Fitz accepted all of their praise with his usual grace and humility, but Jemma kept a close eye on him, looking for any signs of nerves or strain. When it became apparent that the repeated questions about his exploits was starting to wear on him, she politely interrupted the conversation to say she wanted to pull her husband away for some dancing.

Fitz looked relieved as she led him to the dance floor, and when he took her into his arms to guide her gently to the slow beat of the song the band was playing, he smiled at her. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “For, um… for getting me away.”

Jemma smiled back and gave his shoulder a soft squeeze. “It was the least I could do. I imagine having to answer the same questions over and over can get tiresome after awhile.” Fitz nodded, and they danced in silence for a moment. Then she added, “It’s not so bad, though, is it? Being thought of as a hero?”

He sighed, his lips compressing into a thin line. “Not really, no,” he replied. “But I don’t feel like I’ve properly earned it. I was just a journalist. Men like Tibbet, Jacob, Ed, the ones who actually fought on the line every day--they’re the real heroes.”

Jemma frowned, wishing Fitz wasn’t so dismissive of his own contributions. “You risked your life too,” she pointed out. “And…” Her voice dropped. “And you have the scars to prove it.”

Fitz shook his head slightly. “It’s different.”

They lapsed into silence again as the band struck up another slow tune and they continued dancing, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Fitz pulled her a little closer and she sighed quietly, thinking on how they hadn’t been this close outside of sleep since the night they’d danced in their sitting room. She felt similar to the way she had then, too, completely wrapped up in him and taken in by the way he filled her senses. It was the little things that she latched onto--the way his thumb stroked lightly over her knuckles, and how his hand felt splayed wide and warm on her back. She thought of how he’d told her that she looked nice. Jemma longed for him so much in that moment that it made her heart ache, but she was determined to ignore her emotions and simply enjoy being in Fitz’s arms for what it was--a chance to be close to her husband, nothing more and nothing less.

Eventually the band segued into a moderately faster tune, and Fitz stopped and took a step back from her. “I think that’s enough dancing for me,” he said apologetically. “Would you like something else to drink?”

Jemma mourned the loss of his proximity, but nodded anyway and smiled at him. As Fitz headed off in the direction of the bar, she made her way to the edge of the dance floor, where she immediately ran into her mother.

“Jemma!” she exclaimed. “I was just looking for you. Look who I’ve found!” She gestured to the young man standing beside her, who gave her a small smile and a nod of greeting. “You remember Milton Abernathy, don’t you? He’s here with his parents and we ran into each other just a moment ago.” She looked aside at him. “I told her how we met at the post office a few months ago.” Then she looked back at Jemma. “He asked if you were here.”

Jemma squinted at him. She hadn’t seen him in years, but he did look like the boy she remembered from secondary, just older. “Milton, hello,” she said, smiling politely at him. “How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been well, thank you, Jemma,” he said, beaming back at her. “It’s so good to see you after all these years. You’re all grown up now.” He chuckled. “How have _you_ been?”

“I’m doing well myself,” Jemma replied. Then she glanced over her shoulder toward the bar before looking back at Milton. “If you wait a moment, I can introduce you to my husband. He’s gone to get us some drinks.”

Milton’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, you’re married?” he asked, sounding surprised. “Gosh, isn’t that something. Congratulations, then, he’s a lucky man.”

A tiny little warning bell went off in Jemma’s brain, even as she put on a bright smile. Had her mother not mentioned to Milton the fact that she was married both times she had spoken to him now? “Thank you,” she said while her mind whirred away at that. “It’s only been a little while, but we’re very happy.” That last she said very purposefully. “He’s a writer and book reviewer for the _Telegraph_ , and before that, during the war, he was a field correspondent.”

“A war correspondent! For the _Telegraph_?” Milton replied. “Say, is he that James Smith fellow?”

Jemma smiled, a thin thread of amusement over Fitz’s pseudonym curling through her chest. “Yes, that’s him. Though his real name is Leo Fitz.” At Milton’s questioning head tilt, she added, “Oh, it was a silly thing about the paper not liking his name and all of that, thought it wouldn’t sell. But yes, that’s him.”

“That’s brilliant.” Milton looked suitably impressed. “I was never called to join up because I was at university and then I got put to work at a chemical factory for my war service, but I think it’s amazing, what he did. He must have so many stories.”

Jemma snuck a glance at her mother. She didn’t look entirely thrilled, which only served to confuse her further--what exactly had she been hoping to accomplish by introducing her to Milton again? It was very strange.

“He does,” she said, turning her attention back to Milton and thinking of the book that Fitz had only just begun to work on. “But we’re more focused on our daughter now.”

If it were possible, Milton’s eyebrows rose even higher. “A daughter?” he cried, sounding even more surprised than he had to discover she was married.

-:-

Fitz had finally reached the front of the surprisingly considerable line at the bar and ordered a scotch for himself and a gin and tonic for Jemma. Both drinks now firmly in hand, he turned around to look for his wife--but when he found her, his stomach sank. 

She was standing to the side of the dance floor, talking to a young man he didn’t recognize while her mother looked on. Jemma’s face was animated, her smile wide as she talked, and the man looked like he was hanging off of her every word. But that wasn’t what had a pit of dread forming in his gut. It was her mother and the way she was watching the two of them as they spoke. Something about her expression was rubbing him the wrong way. Swallowing, he made his way toward them.

“One gin and tonic, just as you like,” he said when he reached Jemma’s elbow, holding the glass out slightly toward her. Jemma immediately stopped in the middle of what she’d been saying--something about her translation work--and turned to him with a bright smile. 

“Thank you so much,” she said, taking the drink from him. Then she nodded toward the man she was speaking to. “Fitz, this is Milton Abernathy. We went to school together here in London. Milton, this is my husband, Fitz.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Fitz said, switching hands with his drink so he could offer one to shake. Milton took it and gave him only a slightly weak shake, but Fitz’s mind was too busy pinging on the fact that this was the man Jemma’s mother had brought up on her birthday to really notice.

“You as well,” Milton said heartily, letting go of his hand and smiling. “Jemma was just telling me all about you.”

Fitz swallowed again. “Oh?” he asked, aiming for polite but probably just coming off as wary. He took a sip of his scotch to cover it up.

Milton nodded at Jemma, who was continuing to smile at the both of them. “Yes. She told me about what you did during the war as a correspondent, it sounds fascinating.”

Fitz tried not to wince. “Well… it certainly was that,” he said, and cleared his throat. “What do you do?”

Straightening his shoulders a bit, Milton replied, “I’m a chemical engineer. I work in a lab at a factory just outside the city.”

Fitz snuck a glance at Mrs. Simmons. She was looking at Milton with what looked like approval, and it only made his stomach sour even further. Suddenly he felt paranoid that she preferred Milton over him and wished that Jemma had married the other man instead. What else could explain the expression on her face or the fact that she’d brought him up twice now, this time going so far as to bring them together to speak? She was trying to push her daughter in another man’s direction. 

And why shouldn’t she? Fitz was just a lowly writer who was broken from his experiences with war. Milton didn’t suffer from strained nerves. He didn’t ever have night terrors or lose touch with reality. He didn’t have a wealth of horrible memories he could never erase. He had a stable job with good income and could give Jemma and Ellie the life they deserved.

The realization took all of the holiday cheer he had and completely erased it. He’d tried his best every day since they’d been married to be everything Jemma wanted and needed and though he knew he’d had varying amounts of success, he thought he’d at least been coming out even. Now, seeing her mother give someone else her visible approval, it felt like all of his efforts had been useless.

He wasn’t good enough for Jemma, and he knew it. Worse, her mother knew it, too.

-:-

Fitz had been in something of a mood ever since he’d gone for their second round of drinks. He wasn’t rude, far from it, but he’d gone quiet and slightly sullen and was only doing the bare minimum to stay polite and agreeable. It worried Jemma--she wondered if someone had been too invasive with their questions at the bar, or if Milton mentioning his war duties had just been one person too far. She eventually tried pulling him away for more dancing, hoping to soothe him, but he complained of a headache and said he’d much rather either have another scotch or go home.

They ended up going home. It didn’t take long to collect Ellie from Mrs. Wilson, and then they were on the Tube, headed back to Chiswick. Fitz stayed silent even there, and Jemma didn’t ask anything of him, partially because she still didn’t quite know how to handle his moods when memories of the war made him distant and irritable, but mostly because she didn’t think the Tube carriage was a good place to talk about it. 

But once they were home and Ellie was down for the night and they were both in their pajamas, she broached the subject. “Fitz?” she asked quietly. “Are you alright?” When he simply blinked at her, she added, “It’s just… you’ve been quiet since almost halfway through the party.”

Fitz stared at her for a moment, then looked down. “It’s nothing,” he mumbled. “I’m fine.”  
  
They may not have been married for all that long, but Jemma knew enough to know that he wasn’t _fine_ in the least. “Fitz, please,” she pleaded. “Did someone say something to upset you? Was someone too familiar with their questions?”

He shook his head as he closed the wardrobe door and walked to his side of the bed, then sat down. “No… it’s not anything like that.”

“Then it _is_ something,” Jemma said. “Please, is it…” A terrible thought occurred to her. “Did _I_ do something wrong? Because if I did, I’ll--”

“No!” Fitz’s head whipped back up, and his eyes were wide as he stared at her. “No, it’s not you at all, it’s…” Then he deflated and looked back down at his lap. “I saw the way your mother was looking at Milton when you were talking,” he said after a moment, so softly she almost couldn’t hear him. “I know she wishes you were with him instead. She thinks you can do better than me.”

Jemma stared at him, stunned. Was _that_ what he thought her mother was really up to? She’d figured her mum was only trying to meddle in her social life and keep her in the same circles she’d always been in when she no longer felt she belonged. Did he truly think her mum wanted to see her married to another man? She fumbled for a response, at a complete loss. “Fitz--”

“And she’s right,” he cut in, lifting his head. His expression was bleak and defeated. “You could. You could do so much better than me, you _deserve_ a better man than me--”

“I don’t _want_ a better man,” she blurted. Fitz went silent, barely-disguised hope flashing across his face, and suddenly it was all crystal clear: he was still in love with her. His anguished expression made that clear. And by keeping silent on her own feelings, she’d unknowingly let him carry on thinking he wasn’t worthy of her, when he was the only man she’d ever really wanted. Well, there would be no more of that. Heart racing, she crossed to sit on the edge of the bed in front of him and lifted a careful hand to his cheek, touching him gently.

“I want _you_ ,” she said, quietly but fervently, “and only you. No one else. Exactly as you are, and no other way.”

Fitz’s emotions were written plain to see on his face: his cautious hope and a deep longing at odds with the fear of rejection. It nearly broke Jemma’s heart to see. “Even--even if I’m no longer the man that you first met?” he asked, his voice small and trembling.

“Yes,” Jemma replied immediately, reaching up with her other hand to cradle his face between her palms. She didn’t believe he was all that different, but that would be something to tackle another time. She shifted a little closer to him, enough to rest her forehead on his. “I’m sorry it took me so long to sort out my feelings,” she apologized. “Everything was so jumbled and out of order, and I’ve always liked to have things neat. And then I was afraid you no longer loved me.”

“No longer…?” Fitz’s eyes were still trained on hers, even at this short distance.

Jemma inhaled. “I heard you talking to your mum,” she explained. “Before we were married. You told her you loved me.” His eyes widened, and she hurried to add, “But when you never said anything to me, or did anything, I thought… I thought your feelings had changed.”

“Oh, Jemma,” Fitz whispered, full of remorse, his hands settling on her waist. “I _do_ love you. So much.”

Jemma had to close her eyes for a second at the wave of happiness that washed through her, bright and intense, at hearing him finally say the words. “But you’re a good man,” she continued, going back to her original train of thought, “kind and funny, and you stayed with me when other men might have chosen their freedom. You’re a wonderful father to Ellie.” She swallowed against the lump that had risen in her throat. “You’ve been nothing short of extraordinary this whole time. How could I _not_ love you?”

Instead of replying, Fitz leaned across the scant space separating them to kiss her. It felt like stars burst at the contact, and Jemma eagerly pressed back into him. It obviously wasn’t their first kiss, but it felt like it in a way: sweet and gentle but brimming with emotion that had been held back for far too long. It felt like coming home.

When Fitz finally broke the kiss, he didn’t go far; he slid his hands up her sides to curl around her shoulders and leaned his forehead back against hers. “I’ve loved you since the day I met you,” he said hoarsely. Jemma melted at his sweetness, at hearing just how long he’d cared for her, and nuzzled at his nose. Fitz sniffled and passed a hand over her hair. “You’ve given me everything that I’ve ever wanted,” he added. “A best friend, a family, a home.” He took in a shaky breath. “I felt lost after I came back from the war. I didn’t know what to do with myself. But you and Ellie gave me a new purpose. All I want is to make you happy.”

Jemma felt the prick of joyful tears at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back and smiled at Fitz. “You do,” she assured him, stroking her hand over his cheek, along his jaw. “I promise you, you do.”

She drew him into another kiss, and after that, they lost themselves in getting reacquainted with one another. They relearned how to fit their mouths perfectly together and rediscovered how the slow slide of their lips could ignite heat and send pleasure sparking through their veins. Jemma remembered that dotting kisses around the shell of Fitz’s ear made him shiver and groan, while he found that mouthing gently at her pulse point made her sigh and clutch him tighter. They pulled each other closer and their kisses grew more and more passionate until Jemma could no longer tell where she ended and Fitz began. It all evoked memories of their one night together so long ago. But this was made better by the history now between them and the knowledge that they were both loved and so, so wanted.

It wasn’t until Jemma found herself on her back with her head on the pillow and Fitz above her, his body pressing hers down into the mattress, that they finally broke for air.

“Jemma,” Fitz gasped, struggling to catch his breath, “I don’t--um, I don’t have any--” He gestured vaguely down with one hand. “The army would just hand them out but I’m not with them anymore and, um--well, we haven’t--” His cheeks flushed. “I mean, we didn’t--”

Jemma shushed him gently with a soft kiss, lingering until she felt him relax again. “It’s alright,” she said, feeling the certainty and the rightness of it settling in her bones as she said it. “I’m willing to accept the consequences now, if it happens.” She smiled at him. “I’m ready.”

Fitz’s eyes went round as he stared down at her, and he swallowed. “Are you sure?”

She nodded and combed a hand through his hair. “Very sure,” she replied, a thrill taking root deep inside, mixing with the love and the desire she felt for him. “Absolutely sure.”

Fitz’s eyes darkened. “ _Jemma_ ,” he breathed, and leaned down to kiss her, hard and hot, immediately slanting her mouth open to stroke his tongue over hers. Jemma responded eagerly, wrapping her arms around him and arching up into his touch.

The time for talking was over, and soon after that they even gave up any pretense of thinking. It was just the two of them, together, the way they’d first met; but deeper, sweeter, more solid. There was no uncertainty about what the future held for them, only the security of a deeper relationship and the knowledge that they’d made a vow to stay together for the rest of their lives. And that made all the difference in the world.     


	14. Chapter 14

_ Two Months Later _

Fitz and Jemma’s sitting room was filled with a small host of guests: her parents, Harriet and Peter, the Porters from a few houses down who had brought their young son Matthew, Reverend Wainwright from the church on Turnham Green, and a few other neighbors they’d become acquainted with. They were all chatting amongst themselves, or focusing their attention on the subject of the day’s celebration: Ellie, who was turning one year old. 

Jemma had set her high chair up next to the fireplace, and she was currently sitting in it, playing with a small doll she’d received. The gifts had already been opened and she’d collected a modest haul; mostly handmade clothes and a few hard-won toys that had been difficult to locate. Jemma had wanted to make Ellie’s day special, so she’d saved up their rations and made a large sugarless cake and a plate of ginger biscuits, and Harriet had procured enough lemons to make a pitcher of lemon squash. It all made for a nice treat for everyone in attendance, and Jemma was pleased with how everything was going. Ellie was happy, the wireless was providing a soft backdrop to everyone’s conversation, and Fitz’s mum had even sent a lovely handwritten card, which was currently sitting on the mantel next to cards from Bobbi and Alice. It was full of good wishes for Ellie’s birthday, and Fitz had hope that perhaps it meant she was finally warming up to Jemma being a part of his life.

Speaking of Fitz…

He had been speaking to Mr. Wainwright, but when Jemma glanced away from where she and her mother and Harriet were grouped next to Ellie’s high chair, she saw him slipping out the door and into the hall. She frowned slightly to herself, then turned back toward her guests. 

“I’ll be right back,” she said, stretching to sit her glass of lemon squash on the mantel. “I forgot the knives for the cake.”

Satisfied that Ellie was well occupied with her doll, Jemma turned to head for the kitchen, knowing that was where Fitz would have gone. Sure enough, she found him there, leaning heavily on the sink and staring out the window into the garden. She quietly approached him and laid a light hand on his back, not wanting to startle him. “Is it all a bit much?” she asked softly.

Fitz nodded once. He’d confessed to her one night that crowds and constant noise made him nervous, a lingering after-effect of the war. That meant that his daily commute to and from work was fraught with tension, and that even small gatherings such as this could sometimes prove to be stressful. He drew in a slow breath and let it out, his head bowing a bit.

“I just… need a moment,” he murmured.

Jemma’s heart cracked for him, but she knew this was the best way for him to manage his stress: peace and quiet and a minute to himself. Stroking her hand once up and down his back, she whispered, “Take all the time you need,” and leaned in to place a gentle kiss to his cheek. Then she turned to go to the dining room to get the utensils she needed from the sideboard.

Back in the sitting room, Ellie was still happily the center of attention, babbling away and waving her doll around for everyone’s amusement. As Jemma got ready to serve the cake, she reflected on how much Ellie had grown, and how she was growing to look more and more like her father every day. Fitz might disagree with her, but Jemma was confident in her appraisal. Ellie had Fitz’s eyes and his curls, and her dark hair had even lightened a bit over the course of the year, turning a shade that was somewhere between Jemma’s chestnut and Fitz’s dark blonde. She could only imagine how much more she’d come to look like Fitz the older she got.

Jemma cut one extra slice to save for Fitz once everyone else had been taken care of, and then they all tucked in. The cake had turned out so much better than the crepes she had tried to make for Fitz months ago; she was glad that her baking skills had improved since then. At the very least, she was good enough now that she wasn’t getting any complaints or criticisms from her mother, which was a definite victory.

Fitz came back in while Jemma was feeding Ellie tiny bits of cake off of her plate, smiling at the way her daughter’s face lit up at the sweet taste. He looked visibly better, and no one seemed to take notice of the fact that he’d been missing for several minutes. He made a beeline for Ellie, grinning when he saw the icing smudged around her lips.

“Managed to get some of your cake, did you?” he asked cheerfully, moving the tray on her seat so he could pick her up. “It’s delicious, isn’t it? Your mum worked hard on it.”

Jemma’s smile widened, and she cut off another small bite of cake with her fork to hold up to Ellie’s mouth. “She’s going to have a sweet tooth like you, I can already tell,” she teased, watching as their daughter immediately opened her mouth to receive the cake.

Mrs. Simmons was watching them with a faintly critical eye. “You’ll spoil her if you’re not careful,” she warned, but there was a hint of a smile on her face, too.

Jemma shook her head. “It’s her birthday, there’s no harm in spoiling her a little just for a few hours,” she reasoned. “Even if she won’t remember it when she’s older.”

“That’s right,” Fitz agreed, adjusting his grip on Ellie, who was reaching out for Jemma’s fork in the hopes of getting more cake. “Our girl deserves the world. Isn’t that right?” He asked this last of the child in question.

Ellie replied by emphatically babbling at Jemma, demanding another bite of dessert.

-:-

Late in the afternoon, the party finally wound down and all of their guests eventually went home, leaving Jemma in her armchair with a full, drowsy Ellie in her lap. Both of them were a little tired out from the day. Out in the hall, she could hear Fitz telling her parents goodbye and promising to visit soon, followed by the sound of the front door shutting. A moment later he reappeared, smiling when he saw them and crossing the room to kneel at her feet, taking the hand she wasn’t using to support Ellie in his.

“What a day, yeah?” he asked quietly, looking down at their daughter. “I can’t believe our girl is already a year old.” 

Jemma thought briefly of the months he had missed, but knew that by now he had been in Ellie’s life for longer than he’d been away. It made her smile, and she squeezed her fingers around his. “Time really has flown, hasn’t it?” she said. “Sometimes it feels like it was yesterday that I had her… but then I think about how so much has changed in my life since then, and how grateful I am for it.” Her smile turned soft as she looked at him. “I have you to thank for much of that.”

Fitz smiled back at her, his eyes shining in the sunset glow coming through the window, and lifted her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles. “I think you know how thankful I am to have you in my life,” he replied, before his smile turned a touch teasing. “But if you don’t, I’ll be happy to remind you.” He dropped another kiss on her hand before pushing to stand back up. “Come on, let’s get Little Miss here up to bed, she’s earned a nap. Better her cot than your lap.”

Jemma carefully shifted Ellie so Fitz could pick her up without waking her, and together they took her upstairs to her room. Ellie went down without a fuss, immediately snuggling into her blanket and closing her eyes again with a sigh. They watched her for a moment, each of them lost in their own thoughts regarding the miracle of their daughter, then turned and left to go back downstairs, quietly shutting the door behind them. 

In the sitting room, Jemma started to collect all of the dirty plates and forks to take to the kitchen to wash. Fitz followed her, his hands reaching out like he wanted to help or possibly even stop her, and after a moment said, “Don’t overdo it, Jemma. You’ve worked really hard today, and I don’t want you to exhaust yourself.”

Jemma looked up at him from where she was setting the last plate on top of the stack she had and rolled her eyes at him. “I’m pregnant, not made of glass.”

Fitz’s eyes went wide. “I know that,” he said, and this time he really did hold his hand out, in a placating gesture. “It’s just--I wasn’t with you the first time around, so I don’t know how any of this works. I just want you and the baby to be alright.”

Her expression softened, and she gave him a small smile. “I’m hardly far along right now,” she reminded him. “And I’m not as ill as I was last time. Regular chores won’t wear me out. Though, ask me again in a few months...”

Fitz laughed, some of the tension releasing from his shoulders, and he followed her into the kitchen. “Can I at least help?” he asked.

Jemma nodded, setting the dirty dishes down on the table next to the sink and motioning for him to join her. “Of course. I’d never turn down a spot of help from you.”

They got to work, with Jemma scrubbing and rinsing the dishes before handing them to Fitz to dry and set in the dish rack. They made a good team, just as they always did, and as she made her way through the plates and forks she let her mind wander over the events of the past two months. She didn’t know when she’d conceived--if it had been that first night or sometime soon after, but she couldn’t be more than a few weeks along. Fitz had been absolutely overjoyed when she’d told him the news, but he’d turned into an overly concerned and protective expectant father overnight. It was charming, if a bit annoying sometimes, but Jemma always reminded herself that it was leagues better than the alternative. She’d already gone through one pregnancy without him; she wasn’t going to take anything for granted this time.

With her pregnancy being so recent, they hadn’t announced their happy news yet; they were waiting until a doctor would see her to confirm their suspicions before telling anyone. Fitz was extremely interested to see how his mother would take it, but Jemma was preoccupied with her daydreams of the future. Would Ellie get a younger sister, or would they have a boy who would become the spitting image of his father? Mostly, she was looking forward to Fitz getting to experience everything he’d missed out on, from the joyful to the mundane. Seeing her pregnancy through his eyes would certainly put a fresh spin on it.

Once they were done with the washing up, they went back to the sitting room to relax for a bit before Jemma heated up some dinner for them. Just before she sat down, Fitz stopped her and said, “You know I just want to make sure you’re taken care of this time, right?”

The slight crease of worry in his brow was adorable, and Jemma wanted to smooth it away with her thumb. “I do,” she reassured him, giving his arm a soft squeeze. “And I promise you, you’re doing an excellent job of it. I’m just fine.”

He took a step closer to her, gently resting a hand on her stomach, which was still flat and had yet to show any signs of the life growing within. “I’m so glad I’m going to be here for everything now,” he said quietly. “I still regret not being here for Ellie.”

There was a brief, faint pang in her heart, remnants of the grief and loneliness that had dogged the days of her first pregnancy, and Jemma reached out to run her hands up and down his arms. “I know you do,” she replied. “But you  _ are _ here. And I’m very happy to have you with me.” She smiled at him. “Everything’s going to be wonderful in the end, you’ll see.”

Fitz smiled back at her; then his eyes cut past her to the wireless, which was still playing softly. A slower song had just come on, and his grin twisted a little at the corner. Dropping his hand from her stomach to curl around one of hers, he asked, “Dance with me?”

Any lingering sadness she might have felt vanished, replaced by a heart full of love for him. “Always,” Jemma replied, her smile widening. “Just like help, I’ll never turn down a dance from my husband, either.”

Still smiling, Fitz pulled her to the center of the room and into his arms. She sighed as she settled her cheek on his shoulder, feeling completely at peace as he guided her to the beat of the music. These were the times she cherished the most with him, quiet and simple but with so much love between them. There were a lot of changes ahead for them in the coming months, but they would always have this: moments to themselves to just be with one another, basking in the contentment of knowing they were loved, and that everything was alright in their world.

-:-

Jemma looked in the mirror as she brushed her teeth, and found a pale, exhausted woman looking back.

It was the end of a very long day. Being Saturday, Fitz was home all day, but since he was hard at work on his memoir she had chosen to give him some space and quiet in which to write and had taken Ellie to the church, where Harriet had invited her to assist with the summer festival. She had thought that, being a mum, volunteering in the creche to mind the children of the other women who were working the festival would be simple. But not every child was as well-behaved as Ellie was, and Jemma had underestimated the energy needed to successfully keep a small herd of young children entertained and out of trouble. Being six months pregnant certainly hadn’t helped things. 

But it had been a service to Harriet and to Fitz, so Jemma was glad to do it. She was just infinitely more glad that the day was done now and she could finally rest. There had still been a very active Ellie to deal with once they had arrived back home in the evening, and dinner needed to be made.

Fitz had almost chased her away from the hob when he’d seen how tired she was, but she’d insisted she was fine and could handle a simple stew. He’d reluctantly gone back to his writing only after more prodding, but as soon as the dishes had been cleared from the table after dinner, he’d banished her to her armchair in the sitting room and taken care of Ellie until it was her bedtime.

Done with her teeth, Jemma dropped her toothbrush in the cup on the edge of the sink and sighed before turning and leaving the bathroom, switching the light off behind her. When she entered the bedroom, she was happy to see Fitz sitting up on the bed against the headboard, dressed in his pajamas, an open book lying in his lap. He looked up when she entered, and immediately shut his book and set it aside on the bedside table, smiling at her.

“Come here,” he said, patting the empty spot on the mattress next to him. “You’ve had a long day. Time for some rest.”

Jemma smiled back at him and sat down on the edge of the bed, then carefully swung her legs up onto it and shifted so she was curled up against his side, straightening out her nightdress over her belly and her legs as she got settled. “Oh, it feels good to be off my feet,” she sighed.

Fitz had moved to slip his arm around her shoulders, but paused at her words. “Are they really that sore?” he asked, a crease of concern appearing between his eyebrows. “I can give them a rub, if you want me to.”

She laughed. “Oh, no, that’s not necessary. I think a full night’s rest should do the trick, and I’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”

He wasn’t convinced. “Are you sure?” he pressed. “Because I really don’t mind. I just want to take care of you and the baby.”

To her horror, Jemma’s mood swerved and suddenly tears were filling her eyes. It was a lament that Fitz had uttered often over the course of her pregnancy, staying true to his knack for being an overprotective husband, but somehow right in this moment it struck her right to her core.

He noticed her mood shift, and his whole face pinched with worry. “Jemma?” he asked. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” she cried, and cringed as her tears spilled over, even as she turned more into him. “No, it’s just--this, all of it--you, wanting to rub my feet, taking care of me,  _ you _ \--it’s--it’s all I wanted while I was pregnant with Ellie.”

“Oh, Jemma,” Fitz murmured, and used his arm around her to pull her closer.

She sniffed wetly. “I didn’t know if you would have stayed with me or run, but I wanted you there so badly. I used to dream about it. Even when I thought you were dead.” She swiped the back of her hand over her cheek. “And now you’re here and it’s just…” She trailed off, too choked up to go on.

Fitz was silent for a long moment, both of his arms around her, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed filling the yawning gulf of emotions she was teetering over. Then he said, quietly, “Now you don’t have to dream anymore.” 

Jemma tilted her head back to look up at him, and he was watching her with a solemn look on his face. When their eyes met, he gave her a small smile and gently tucked her hair behind one ear. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he said, brushing the pad of his thumb beneath her eyes to wipe her tears away. “There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wish I’d had the courage to write you just one more time. But it’s done, and while I can’t change the past, you’re right--I  _ am _ here now. And I’m not going anywhere.” He leaned in to press a soft kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be here to give you all the support and foot rubs you need, help you when it’s all too much, and annoy you with my constant questions and needling--”

Jemma laughed despite herself, curling even more into his side. 

“There you are,” Fitz said, pleased at having brought some cheer out of her. “We’re doing better this time, yeah? And this baby will know their father from day one.” He laid a light hand on the swell of her stomach.

Warmth suffused her at the gesture, and she covered his hand with hers, pushing her fingers between his. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For staying with me. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually thanked you.”

Fitz shook his head. “No thanks needed,” he replied, and then his smile quirked at the edges. “There wasn’t any way I was going to turn down a life with the gorgeous girl of my dreams, especially not when said girl was also giving me a daughter.”

“Maybe not so gorgeous right now,” Jemma muttered, feeling her cheeks heat at his praise. She squeezed her hand over his where they rested on her stomach. “I feel like a house.”

“Nonsense,” Fitz said cheerfully, though there was a glint of seriousness in his eye. “You’ve never looked more beautiful to me than you do carrying my child.”

She felt herself blush even harder, but when he leaned in to kiss her, carrying the weight of his promise to stay, it felt like some of the pieces that were still broken inside of her finally began to mend. 

-:-

“Alright… easy, now… watch your head… right, up we go.”

Jemma was torn between amusement and annoyance at Fitz’s hovering concern, but she didn’t have enough energy to devote towards being irritated, so amused it was. Besides, as tired and weak as she still felt, his assistance in getting out of the cab was actually welcomed. If it put her husband at ease in regards to the bundle she was currently carrying in her arms, she was willing to allow it.

It was a cool day near the end of September, and they were bringing home their newborn son. Harriet had graciously offered to watch Ellie for the morning while Fitz traveled to the hospital to meet Jemma, and then he had insisted on paying for a cab to take them back to Chiswick rather than deal with the Tube or a bus. Jemma was thankful for it; the idea of bringing a days-old infant on public transport hadn’t appealed to her in the slightest.

But baby James had slept peacefully the entire cab ride, and now he was finally home. Jemma stretched her legs on the pavement while Fitz paid the cabbie. Then he rejoined her, placing a light hand on her back, and the smile he gave her was ebullient. “Shall we?” he asked.

Jemma nodded, and they went through the little gate of their front garden to the door of the house, where Fitz opened it and stood aside to let her go in first. Once he got the door closed behind them, he shucked his coat off and hung it on the coat stand before coming back to her and putting his arm around her shoulders. 

“Home,” he murmured, turning his face into her hair. “Do you want to get him put down in his cot?”

She nodded. “Just for a little while, before his next bottle. And then I’ll need a bit of a rest before we go get Ellie.”

Fitz squeezed his arm around her. “I can go fetch her alone, if you need me to. But come on, let’s get our little master upstairs.”

He prodded at her to go up the staircase ahead of him, then followed her into the nursery. They’d recently bought a second cot and squeezed it in along the wall opposite from Ellie’s. It was a tight fit along with the dresser, but it worked. Before Jemma could lay James down, Fitz stopped her with a hand on her arm. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to the baby and looking a little shy. “Just for a moment.”

The nurses at the hospital hadn’t let Fitz hold James when he was visiting, so this was his first opportunity. Jemma’s heart melted at seeing how eager he was to hold his son, and how nervous. She knew it was likely her wildly fragile emotions post-birth, but she wasn’t sure she’d ever loved Fitz more.

“Of course,” she said with feeling. “Here.” She nodded for him to hold his arms out, and when he did, carefully transferred the sleeping baby to him. “Make sure you’ve got a good hold on him, and that his head is supported. There you go.” Satisfied that James was secure, Jemma let her hands fall away and took a tiny step back to take them in.

Fitz was looking down at James with the same awe that he had when he’d seen him for the first time, nestled in Jemma’s arms in her bed on the maternity ward. His eyes looked a little watery, too, and seeing that sort of naked emotion writ on his face brought the sting of happy tears to Jemma’s eyes as well.

“Look at him,” he whispered, and his voice was thick with emotion. “My son.  _ Our _ son.” He gingerly shifted the baby in his arms to touch a finger to his delicate cheek, smiling when James let out a tiny sigh in his sleep. “He’s beautiful, Jemma. I can’t believe…” He shook his head. “He’s a miracle.”

These were all things that Fitz had said already, but hearing it now, in their home with their newborn child in his arms, somehow gave it more weight and meaning. Jemma placed a hand on his back and leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder and looking down at their son with a smile.

“Are you going to tell Tibbet that you named your son after him?” she asked, with a hint of a tease.

Fitz huffed a soft laugh, taking care not to be loud and wake James up. “I didn’t  _ technically _ name him after Tibbet, you know. I named him after me. We just happen to share a name, that’s all.” He smiled as he traced a finger over the crown of James’ head. “But yes, I expect he’ll be insufferable once I write to him. We’ll probably be able to see his big smug head from this side of the Atlantic.”

Jemma’s smile widened. “You’ll have to send him a photograph.”

He nodded, his eyes still on his son. “I will. He’ll want visual evidence of his namesake, after all. Not that he’ll admit it to anyone.”

She rubbed her hand over his back, nuzzling into his shoulder a bit. They watched their son in contented silence for another moment until he wriggled in his swaddling and stretched to let out a wide yawn. Fitz looked slightly panicked, unused to holding a newborn, but Jemma just smiled. “That’s our cue, I think,” she said. “Let’s get him laid down.”

She could tell Fitz was a little reluctant to let go of him, but he still leaned over to gently settle James on his back inside the cot. Once he made sure his blankets were tucked securely around him, he straightened up and sighed.

“He’ll be alright,” Jemma reassured him, intuiting that Fitz was loathe to leave their baby alone. “He did just fine in the nursery at the hospital without me. Besides, you’ll see him up in a few hours anyway when it’s time for his bottle.”

Downstairs, Jemma got her own coat off and headed for the sitting room, intent on reacquainting herself with her armchair and relaxing for a spell before heading to the kitchen to heat up some of the food the Porters had brought over the day before for lunch--assuming Fitz didn’t get there first and insist on doing it for her. But again, Fitz stopped her before she could get there, though this time he wrapped her up in his arms, holding her close.

“I just want a minute with you,” he mumbled into her hair. “Before I go to get Ellie. Stay here with me.”

Jemma folded her arms tight around his waist, burying herself in his chest. They hadn’t had many opportunities to be close while she’d been in the hospital, either, and she relished the chance to take a quiet moment with him before they had Ellie to mind again. So she closed her eyes and breathed him in and once again thanked anyone who was listening that Fitz had come back to her, and that he’d been there for her over the past week. It had been such a marked difference from her experience when Ellie was born; she had still been alone in the labor ward, but she had been allowed oxygen and gas for pain relief, and Fitz was waiting for her on the other side. Just being able to see him when everything was over, when she was still exhausted and raw and emotional, and see the glow of new fatherhood on his face, had felt like everything she’d gone through without him was worth it.. 

“I don’t think I could really appreciate it before,” he said quietly, as if divining her thoughts. “You told me about everything that happened with Ellie, but it didn’t seem  _ real _ . Not until they took you away and I had nothing to do but pace in that room for hours. There were other men there, but… we weren’t exactly chatty.” He huffed, then started to comb his fingers gently through her hair. “Then the nurse finally came and told me I had a son and that I could see you…” He sighed against her. “Seeing you… and thinking of you going through all of that alone, with no one waiting for you--I mean, I know your parents were there, but it’s not the same, is it?”

“Hey,” Jemma said softly, squeezing her arms around him. “No sadness today. This is a happy day for us.” Surprisingly, though she had compared her two stays in the hospital, she wasn’t feeling any residual grief over the circumstances surrounding Ellie’s birth. She was too full of love to feel anything else at the moment.

Fitz shook head. “I’m not sad,” he insisted. “I’m… grateful. So, so thankful that I could be there for you this time, and that I’ll always be here from now on. That we’re all together now, as a family. Just as we should be.”

“As we should be,” Jemma repeated in a whisper, and tilted her face up to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. He looked down to catch her eye, and when their gazes met he smiled warmly before leaning down to kiss her properly, slow and sweet.

She could feel all of the love he held for her in that one simple gesture, and it was a reminder of how everything had finally settled into place. A little over two years ago, she had met a shy young man at a club at Piccadilly Circus and it had changed the course of her life forever. It had taken turns she couldn’t have expected, but it had all turned out well in the end--better than she could have ever imagined, in her darkest moments. She had a husband she adored and who adored her in return, two beautiful children, a life and a home and her hobbies to occupy her in her spare time. Things wouldn’t always be easy; Fitz still had his demons, but she was confident they could make it through, together. The life they’d carved out for themselves in Chiswick wasn’t perfect, but it felt that way sometimes--out of the ashes of war, they had found their own little slice of heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the end! Thank you so much to everyone for reading, dropping kudos, and leaving comments over the course of this fic. This was truly a passion project for me and it means a lot to see that people enjoyed it. Come visit me on Tumblr @ eclecticmuses and stay tuned for my next planned fic, which is a fluffy, trope-filled romp through the Mediterranean!


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